. 


;  Alice,  come  awav  !"  the  old  man  cried 


Page  355 


MADAME 
BOHEMIA 


By 

FRANCIS 
NEILSON 


ILLUSTRATED  BY  CHARLOTTE  HARDING 


PHILADELPHIA 

J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT   COMPANY 
1901 


COPYRIGHT,  1900 

BY 

J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY 


'  BY  J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY,  PHILADELPHIA,  U.S.A. 


TO 

ALWINE   EDENBOROUGH 


2228407 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

¥ 

PAGE 

"Alice,  come  away  !"  the  old  man  cried    .     .  Frontispiece 

The  great  fortissimo  rang  out 89 

"Don't  try  to  explain,"  she  said  firmly  but  quietly  .     .     .  182 

Listening  for  a  moment 280 


MADAME  BOHEMIA 


CHAPTER    I 

BATTISTA  GUARINI'S  dive  was  a  warm  cellar  near 
Bleeker  Street,  down  a  flight  of  eight  narrow  steps  to 
swinging  doors  on  the  top  step  of  a  shorter  flight ;  the 
doors,  opening,  showed  a  room  which,  though  sixty 
feet  long  and  thirty  broad,  was  less  than  eight  feet 
high;  on  each  side  were  seven  tables,  and  each  table 
was  flanked  by  four  chairs.  In  the  centre  of  the  room 
stood  a  large  stove,  the  pipe  from  which,  suspended 
by  wires,  ran  back  half  the  length  of  the  room  to  the 
kitchen  chimney. 

Guarini  said  the  ceiling  was  already  black  when 
he  turned  the  cellar  into  a  restaurant.  Caricatures 
of  political  notorieties  and  of  celebrated  artists,  and 
curious  anatomical  studies,  were  sketched  by  the  aid 
of  sticks  and  umbrellas  on  the  ceiling,  which  in  con- 
sequence had  a  reputation  equal  to  that  of  Guarini's 
famous  dinner. 

Twelve  years  ago,  in  New  York,  this  was  the  favour- 
ite rendezvous  of  the  hungry  subjects  of  the  Nine. 
Guarini  said  he  was  a  descendant  of  the  Italian  poet 
who  wrote  "The  Faithful  Swain."  No  one  doubted 
this,  for  Battista  was  worthy  of  any  ancestor,  poet  or 
otherwise. 

New  Year's  night,  188 — ,  will  not  be  forgotten  by 

8 


4  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

Guarini's  customers.  It  had  been  snowing  all  day; 
night  brought  a  biting  frost.  Few  were  abroad  that 
night,  and  the  few  that  were  seemed  to  be  like  dead 
things  the  old  year  had  left.  But  the  stove  in  Gua- 
rini's cellar  was  burning  brightly,  and  it  warmed  the 
almost  empty  place,  waiting  in  silence  for  its  cus- 
tomers, who  had  stayed  away  through  fear  of  the 
storm. 

Two  men  were  partaking  of  the  celebrated  dinner. 
One  was  drunk  and  noisy,  not  a  regular  customer; 
the  other,  by  his  appearance  and  conversation,  seemed 
to  be  out  of  place  there,  though  he  chatted  familiarly 
and  pleasantly  with  Guarini.  Near  the  stove  Gari- 
baldi, the  cat,  sat  watching  the  rowdy,  who  cursed  at 
the  storm,  swore  at  Battista,  and  damned  mankind. 

Cyril  Gower,  who,  having  thoroughly  enjoyed  his 
dinner,  was  now  chatting  in  Italian  to  Guarini  about 
Mascagni  and  the  new  school  of  Italian  composers, 
was  about  twenty-three  years  old,  five  feet  eleven 
inches  high,  thin  and  fair,  with  blue  eyes  which  seemed 
ever  to  be  looking  and  reaching  for  the  indefinable. 
Gower  made  most  things  suit  him ;  he  seldom  adapted 
himself  to  conditions.  A  superb  indifference  gave  him 
the  appearance  of  a  modern  Stoic,  but  all  this  was  ac- 
quired of  hard  experience. 

He  was  a  musical  prodigy  at  the  age  of  seven. 
Having  been  a  spoiled  child,  he  became  a  wearied 
youth,  and  was  now  a  disappointed  man. 

For  five  years  he  had  eaten  the  bitter  fruit  of  early 
triumphs.  He  did  not  complain,  but  he  hated  the  in- 
strument which  had  been  the  means  of  his  early  re- 
nown. He  regarded  it  as  the  bane  of  music,  one  of 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  5 

the  modern  infantile  vices,  an  adjunct  of  sciolism,  and 
a  thing  to  be  avoided.  After  hearing  a  recital  by 
Joseph  Raphael,  Gower  said  it  was  dreadful  to  think 
that  every  school-girl  was  pounding  the  key-board  just 
because  her  papa  had  been  foolish  enough  to  buy  a 
piano  to  furnish  the  drawing-room. 

Gower  and  Guarini  continued  their  conversation, 
and  forgot  the  drunken  fellow  across  the  room. 

The  drunken  fellow  pushed  away  his  spaghetti. 

"  It  is  too  lonesome  to  eat,"  he  roared,  "  and  that 
lingo  is  enough  to  drive  a  mule  mad.  Hey,  speak 
English  and  be  sociable." 

"  What  can  I  get  you?"  asked  Guarini,  going  to  the 
rowdy's  table. 

"Have  a  drink?" 

"  No,  thank  you,  I  never  drink." 

"  Well,  ask  your  stuck-up  friend  to  have  one." 

"  The  gentleman  has  half  a  bottle  of  wine  before 
him,"  Guarini  replied,  casting  a  furtive  glance  at 
Gower. 

"  Well,  I'm  damned  if  this  isn't  a  nice  world ! 
New  Year's  night,  and  not  a  soul  to  say  '  How  are 
you?'" 

Guarini  collected  the  plates  and  disappeared  behind 
the  partition  which  screened  the  kitchen.  The  rowdy 
began  to  sing  an  obscene  song.  Gower's  mouth  be- 
trayed a  smile  of  disgust,  and  his  eyes  turned  to  the 
sketches  on  the  ceiling. 

"  I'd  talk  to  the  cat,  but  he's  used  to  Italian,"  said  the 
disconsolate  fellow.  "  Come  here,  puss,  and  purr. 
What !  You  won't  ?  Now  I  come  to  think  of  it,  you 
haven't  purred  since  I  sat  down." 


6  MADAME    BOHEMIA1 

The  door  was  thrown  open  and  a  man  entered.  His 
clothes  were  covered  with  snow. 

The  appearance  of  another  human  being,  after  so 
many  vain  attempts  to  get  into  conversation  with 
Guarini  and  Gower,  caused  the  rowdy  to  belch  out  an 
exclamation  of  joy. 

"  A  friend, — at  last  a  friend !"  and  his  face  beamed. 

"  Is  this  Battista  Guarini's  ?"  asked  the  newcomer 
as  he  shook  the  snow  off  a  threadbare  spring  overcoat, 
which  he  did  not  attempt  to  take  off. 

"  Yes !  Come  over  here !  Sit  down !  Have  a 
drink !"  shouted  the  overjoyed  inebriate. 

"  No,  thank  you,  I  prefer  to  be  alone — as  much  as 
possible,"  replied  the  man. 

"  Well,  I  have  never  seen  anything  like  it,"  the  fel- 
low whined ;  "  it  beats  solitary  confinement.  Not 
even  a  confounded  jailer  to  damn  you."  He  was 
utterly  crushed,  and  too  disappointed  to  blaspheme. 

Guarini  came  from  the  kitchen. 

"  What  may  I  get  for  you  ?"  he  asked,  eyeing  his 
new  guest  from  his  worn-out  hat  to  his  broken  shoes. 

"  Franco  Sacci  told  me  I  could  get  a  good  dinner 
here." 

"  Ah,  Franco  ?     I  have  not  seen  him  for  months." 

"  I  met  him  a  week  ago.     He  has  been  very  ill." 

"  Indeed  ?     Poor  Franco !     Ah,  what  a  talent !" 

"  May  I  take  off  this  coat?  The  heat  is  melting  the 
snow." 

"  Of  course,  sir,"  Battista  readily  assented,  surprised 
at  the  request. 

"  But  I  have  no  coat  on  under  this.  Your  guests 
don't  object  to  me  eating  dinner  in  my  shirt-sleeves  ?" 


MADAME    BOHEMIA1  7 

"  No,  no,  no !  Take  off  the  coat.  I  sail  dry  it  at 
the  stove.  You  look — hum — tired,  sir.  I  go  at  once 
for  ze  soup." 

The  tired  stranger  gave  his  coat  to  Battista,  who 
threw  it  over  the  back  of  a  chair  near  the  stove.  The 
stranger  drew  up  to  his  table  and  leaned  his  head  upon 
his  hands.  His  appearance,  when  he  took  off  his  coat, 
touched  the  well-spring  of  pity  in  Battista's  heart,  and 
he  was  brought  face  to  face  with  hunger  and  suffering, 
summer  and  winter.  The  object  of  his  sympathy  now 
was  a  man  of  twenty-five  years  of  age,  tall, — fully  six 
feet, — of  large,  athletic  frame,  but  thin,  pale,  almost 
emaciated.  So  interesting  was  the  man's  face  that 
one  could  not  resist  a  second  look  at  it,  for  the  ex- 
pression of  the  eyes  sought  other  eyes,  not  for  pity  or 
admiration,  as  the  eyes  of  beggars  or  beautiful  women 
do,  but  for  the  soul-glance  which  stirs  many  a  faint 
heart  and  revives  a  kindlier  spirit  when  all  seems  awry 
and  the  fight  not  worth  the  exertion.  A  sensitive 
mouth,  which  sometimes  seemed  severe  only  to  be 
changed  by  a  gentle  smile,  for  humour's  expression  was 
ever  in  parenthesis  above  his  firm,  round  chin.  His 
hair  was  dark  and  long,  and  his  beard  sadly  needed 
trimming.  He  had  been  so  busily  employed  trimming 
his  mind  that  he  had  forgotten  his  appearance;  what 
was  on  his  back  and  what  his  stomach  craved  were 
secondary  matters. 

Gower  had  not  taken  his  eyes  off  Lexham  (the  new- 
comer) since  he  entered  the  place.  It  was  not  often 
Gower  let  his  mind  go  back  to  days  when  he  was  a 
celebrated  youth,  but  he  could  not  now  resist  the  re- 
viving past.  He  smoked  his  cigar,  and  through  the 


8  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

quiescent  dreaminess  which  its  magic  brought  floating 
round  him  waited  for  recollection  to  flash  a  sudden 
illumination  of  this  man,  who,  he  felt,  was  linked  with 
the  long  ago. 

Guarini  placed  a  large  plate  of  soup  before  Lexham. 
The  drunkard  snored ;  Garibaldi  purred ;  and  Gower's 
unfettered  mind  was  flying  through  the  golden  alleys 
of  his  past. 

Suddenly  the  doors  crashed  open  and  something 
struck  the  floor  and  with  great  impetus  rolled  full 
against  the  feet  of  the  sleeping  drunkard.  The  noise 
and  the  collision  awakened  the  sleeper,  who  sprang 
up,  without  looking  down,  and  gathered  his  arms  above 
his  head  as  if  he  expected  the  cartooned  ceiling  to  fall 
on  him.  Garibaldi  jumped  upon  the  drunkard's  table, 
and  with  beautifully  arched  back  and  perpendicular  tail 
glared  at  the  twisting,  wriggling  form. 

Lexham  ran  to  assist  the  fallen  one  to  rise.  Gower 
for  a  moment  was  interested  in  the  sudden  appearance, 
but  did  not  stir,  and  soon  resumed  his  smoking  as  if 
nothing  had  happened. 

Lexham  helped  to  his  feet  the  man  who  had  broken 
the  quiet  by  his  noisy  fall.  The  rowdy  had  had  time 
to  gather  his  scattered  wits.  They  made  a  strange 
group,  the  three. 

"  Where  am  I  ?"  asked  the  one  who  had  fallen  in. 

"  Where  in  thunder  did  you  come  from?"  inquired 
the  rowdy. 

"Heaven,  I  suppose — I  was  so  long  falling;  and 
if  it  hadn't  been  for  your  small  feet  I  should  now  be 
rolling  off  the  end  of  the  earth." 

"  I  hope  you  are  not  hurt,"  said  Lexham. 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  g 

"  Hurt !  No !  One  fall  more  or  less  doesn't  bother 
me,  though  it  is  a  deuced  long  time  since  I  fell  into 
the  place  I  was  looking  for  and  could  not  find." 

"  This  is  Guarini's  restaurant." 

"  Thanks !  I  have  come  to  get  a  dinner — on  trust. 
Guarini  knows  me.  I  owe  him  nothing,  so  I  don't 
think  he  will  mind  even  giving  away  a  meal  on  such 
a  night." 

"  Come  to  my  table,"  said  Lexham,  "  I  have  enough 
money  to  pay  for  two  dinners." 

"  Do  you" — he  paused  and  looked  at  Lexham  in 
slow  inquiry — "  do  you  know  me?" 

"  No,  but  I  hope  you  will  let  me  know  you,  and  have 
the  pleasure  of  your  company." 

"  I  used  to  be  Dick  Drake." 

"Drake?" 

"  Yes,  of  course ;  I  see  the  name  seems  familiar. 
You  read  and  write :  I  see  all  that  in  the  colour  of  your 
eyes  and  the  shape  of  your  right  hand.  Yes,  I  am  all 
that  is  mortal  of  Dick  Drake.  I  don't  represent  a  very 
healthy  dividend,  but  you  may  make  my  acquaintance 
if  you  want  it." 

"  I  do." 

"  Well,  I  hope  it  will  be  more  serviceable  to  you 
than  it  has  been  to  me." 

"  Sit  down." 

Lexham  turned  to  Guarini,  who  had  brought  the 
second  course  of  the  celebrated  dinner. 

"  This  gentleman  will  dine  with  me.  Bring  the 
soup." 

The  rowdy  had  stood  watching  Lexham  and  Drake 
during  their  conversation.  When  he  saw  the  latter 


io  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

v 

accept  Lexham's  invitation  and  seat  himself  at  the 
table,  his  indignation  knew  no  bounds.  He  tried  to 
stammer  out  a  new  stock  of  oaths,  but  articulation 
failed  him. 

"  Hey,  you  Drake !  Come  over  here.  I'll  stand 
you  a  dozen  dinners."  The  rowdy  lurched  half-way 
across  the  room.  "  Hey,  you  without  a  coat,  you, 
you  long-haired  pauper,  what  right  have  you  to  take 
my  friend  Drake?  He  fell  at  my  feet.  Providence 
sent  him  to  me."  With  this  the  rowdy  clutched  at 
Drake  and  dragged  him  over  to  his  table.  Drake 
struggled  to  free  himself,  but  his  poor,  frail  form  in 
the  grasp  of  the  rowdy  seemed  as  powerless  as  a  mouse 
in  a  cat's  jaws. 

"  Sit  there!"  roared  the  ruffian.  The  indifference 
of  Gower  had  turned  his  half-drunken  joviality  into 
a  sullen  brooding.  To  decline  an  invitation  to  drink 
on  New  Year's  Day  was  an  insult.  Then  when  Lex- 
ham  preferred  another  table  to  his,  the  rowdy  took 
the  action  as  a  direct  snub,  and  felt  that  Lexham  had 
singled  him  out  above  all  men  as  a  thing  to  be  shunned. 

Drake  was  for  a  moment  dumfounded  by  the  force 
and  ferocity  of  the  rough.  The  poor,  frail  fellow 
crouched  in  the  chair,  afraid  of  the  fierce  stare  of  the 
stalwart  bully  who  stood  over  him.  The  bully's  wicked 
glance  seemed  to  pin  Drake  to  the  chair. 

"  Now,  damn  you !  sit  there.  I  must  have  some- 
thing to  talk  to.  Those  cursed  dudes  don't  need  you. 
Have  a  drink?" 

Drake  shrank  farther  into  the  chair  and  blurted, 
"  I  don't  want  a  drink." 

"  Yes,  you  do." 


II 

"  I  do  not,  and  I  object  to  sitting  here  and  being 
bullied  by  you." 

"  What's  the  matter  with  me?  Have  I  got  a  con- 
tagious disease?" 

"  I  am  not  a  health  inspector ;  besides,  if  you  were 
the  healthiest  of  mortals,  that  would  be  no  inducement 
to  know  you." 

Drake  had  got  upon  his  feet,  and  was  about  to  re- 
turn to  Lexham's  table  when  the  rowdy,  who  seemed 
to  have  enjoyed  the  few  words  which  had  passed  be- 
tween him  and  his  victim,  stretched  out  his  arm,  caught 
Drake  before  he  was  half-way  across  the  room,  pulled 
him  back,  and  thrust  him  against  the  chair.  The  chair 
turned  over  and  Drake  along  with  it.  His  head  struck 
a  neighbouring  table.  In  another  moment  Lexham 
was  at  his  side.  The  rowdy  tried  to  push  Lexham 
away,  but  failed,  for  Lexham  quickly  dodged  his  out- 
stretched hand.  Drake,  half-stunned  by  the  fall,  tot- 
tered when  Lexham  placed  him  on  his  feet.  The  room 
seemed  to  revolve  and  close  in  on  him,  and  he  raised 
his  hands  to  wipe  away  the  whirling  sight.  In  so  doing 
one  hand  brushed  across  a  wound  on  his  forehead, 
which  began  to  bleed. 

"  You've  hurt  him !"   cried  Lexham. 

"  I'll  hurt  you  in  a  minute !"  roared  the  rowdy,  "  if 
you  don't  get  to  your  own  table.  It  was  all  your 
fault!" 

"My  fault?" 

;'  Yes,  damn  you !"  and  the  rowdy  struck  fiercely  at 
Lexham.  There  was  a  terrible  crash  of  overturning 
chairs  and  tables.  The  great,  hulking  bully  was  struck 
between  the  eyes  and  sent  rolling  down  the  room. 


12  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

Lexham  had  warded  the  rowdy's  blow,  returned  it 
with  a  force  which  his  physical  condition  in  no  way 
indicated,  and  huddled  up  his  antagonist  in  an  inex- 
tricable tangle  of  furniture. 

Even  Gower  was  astonished.  He  got  up  and  walked 
down  the  room  to  see  if  it  was  really  the  bully  who 
had  fallen.  Guarini,  with  Drake's  plate  of  soup  in  one 
hand  and  Lexham's  second  course  in  the  other,  ran  up 
the  room,  shouting, — 

"  Gentlemen !     Gentlemen !" 

"  We  shall  have  some  quiet  now,"  murmured  Gower 
as  he  strolled  back  to  his  table.  Lexham  bathed  the 
wound  on  Drake's  brow  and  found  his  new  friend  was 
not  much  hurt.  The  rowdy  emerged  from  his  igno- 
minious position  and,  to  Guarini's  amazement,  began 
to  set  the  tables  and  chairs  in  their  proper  upright 
positions.  His  conqueror  and  Drake  were  quietly 
finding  their  appetites  overcoming  the  perturbation 
caused  by  the  fracas. 

"How  is  that?"  asked  the  bully,  pointing  with 
grotesque  pride  to  the  part  of  the  room  he  had  set  in 
order.  "  No  damage  done,  eh,  Guarini  ?" 

The  Italian  could  not  understand  the  change  that 
had  taken  place.  He  had  in  a  moment  conjured  up 
mental  photographs  of  pistol-firing  men,  burly  police- 
men, and  all  the  frightful  details  of  a  brawl,  an  in- 
quest, and  an  execution. 

"  Say,  you're  a  wonder,"  remarked  the  bully,  going 
to  Lexham  and  looking  with  admiration  on  his  late 
foe.  "  I  have  been  looking  and  aching  for  a  fight, 
but  didn't  know  it  till  you  smashed  me.  Now,  have 
a  drink." 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  13 

"  With  pleasure.  Sit  down,"  and  Lexham  gave  his 
chair  to  the  bully  turned  man. 

"  Do  you  know  there's  many  a  man  goes  round  with 
hell  in  him,  and  gets  himself  into  trouble  for  want  of 
a  sharp,  hard  rap  to  knock  the  hell  out  of  him  and  re- 
store reason?" 

"  I'm  glad  you  take  it  in  that  spirit." 

"  Why,  I'd  take  anything  from  you,  barring  your 
valuables  and  character.  I'm  not  such  a  bad  kind, 
but  this  is  the  first  time  I've  been  East  for  fifteen 
years.  I've  been  out  in  Wyoming,  where  I've  got 
going  a  nice,  refined  euchre  party,  sort  of  continuous 
performance,  with  a  good  liquor  business  on  the  side. 
I  came  on  here  to  see  my  old  mother,  but  they  told 
me  she'd  been  dead  these  five  years,  and  that's  why  I 
felt  so  damn  lonesome.  Say,  a  Western  prairie  during 
a  drought  seemed  a  highly  populated,  congenial  garden 
party,  compared  to  this  dive,  before  you  arrived." 

Drake  looked  at  the  man  and  felt  the  spirit  of  for- 
giveness rise  within  his  breast.  The  dull  ache  of  the 
wound  on  his  brow  ceased  to  remind  him  of  his  fall. 
But  an  ugly  lump  above  the  bridge  of  the  Wyoming 
man's  nose  seemed  to  frown  at  him  and  taunt  him. 
The  silent  reproof  was  swelling  and  changing  colour. 
Drake  thought  of  Lexham's  sympathetic  touch,  and 
of  the  cold,  wet  handkerchief  which  was  now  bound 
around  his  head.  He  quietly  untied  the  handkerchief, 
dipped  it  in  a  tumbler  of  water,  and  handed  it  to  his 
assailant. 

"  You  have  a  bruise  on  your  brow.  Take  this," 
said  Drake.  Lexham's  attention  was  for  the  first  time 
drawn  to  the  place  his  blow  had  struck. 


14  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

"  Oh,  I  didn't  mean  to  strike  so  hard,"  he  cried  in 
a  tone  of  half-sorrow. 

"  Let  it  alone,"  said  the  man,  with  a  smile,  which 
seemed  to  soften  the  hard  lines  of  his  tanned  face, 
"  I'm  proud  of  it." 

Guarini  brought  a  bottle  of  Chianti  and  filled  three 
glasses. 

"  Bring  another  glass.  You're  in  this,  Guarini. 
Come  on,  now,  just  to  show  there's  no  ill-feeling," 
and  the  man  grew  warm,  for  he  felt  that  Drake  and 
Lexham  had  accepted  him.  Even  his  hoarse  voice 
was  changed;  it  was  now  not  unpleasant  to 
hear. 

A  silent  toast  was  drunk. 

Gower  was  forgotten. 

He  had  not  succeeded  in  identifying  Lexham;  in- 
deed, he  had  forgotten  the  purpose  for  which  he  had 
let  his  mind  explore  the  past.  For  Drake  was  now 
here  and,  for  a  time,  seemed  to  be  master  of  his  thought. 
This  man,  he  felt,  had  been  connected  with  a  great 
crisis  in  his  life,  when  two  terrible  things  happened 
which  turned  the  tide  of  his  future.  He  had  never 
understood  those  incidents,  though  his  young  mind 
had  been  troubled  by  the  affliction  and  distress  they 
brought  to  persons  near  and  once  dear  to  him,  and 
he  could  not  visualise  the  vague,  shadowy  events  which 
mystified  him  more  now  than  they  did  when  he  was 
a  boy.  But  Drake  seemed  to  him  to  have  been  either 
an  actor  in  those  scenes,  or  a  witness  who  could  relate 
^the  circumstances. 

Memory  held  full  sway,  and  soon  had  Gower  wholly 
under  its  influence;  he  could  no  longer  resist  its  po- 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  15 

tency ;  opium  could  not  have  so  affected  him ;  he  gave 
himself  up  to  it  and  found  a  new  delight  in  yielding 
to  teeming  visualisations. 

As  round  an  impregnable  prison  in  which  were  hid- 
den the  events  and  persons  he  wished  to  call  vividly 
to  mind,  hundreds  of  the  acquaintances  of  his  youth 
seemed  to  pass,  without  giving  any  clew  to  what  he 
insatiably  sought  to  discover.  At  last  he  realised  that 
further  striving  would  not  unveil  the  tantalising  secret. 
He  cast  off  the  clinging  past,  and  with  a  sigh  of  dis- 
satisfaction looked  up  the  room,  trying  to  read  on 
Drake's  and  Lexham's  faces  all  that  the  uncommunica- 
tive long  ago  would  not  disclose. 

"  I  wonder  if  they  would  know  me.  I  have  not 
seen  a  look  of  recognition  from  either,  and  each  has 
several  times  looked  at  me;"  this  he  murmured  almost 
aloud,  and  he  tried  to  catch  Lexham's  eye. 

He  arose,  paid  his  bill,  and  struggled  into  a  warm 
common  overcoat. 

"  Good-night,  Mr.  Gower,"  Guarini  called. 

Drake  turned  and  looked  at  the  owner  of  the  name. 
Lexham  raised  his  eyes  and  met  those  of  the  parting 
guest,  who  was  moving  towards  him.  Gower  stopped. 
Drake  and  Lexham  rose.  For  a  moment  each  hesi- 
tated. 

"  Is  your  name  Lexham  ?" 

"Yes.     Are  you  Cyril  Gower?" 

"Yes.     How  are  you?" 

"Cyril  Gower!  Cyril  Gower!  Well,  I'm  damned 
if  it  isn't  funny!"  and  Drake  laughed;  "why,  you 
were  one  of  the  wonders  of  the  age  when  I  last  saw 
you." 


16  MADAME   BOHEMIA 

"  Wonders  and  ages  change,  and  Guarini's  restau- 
rant epitomises  the  world,"  said  Gower. 

"  Yes,  it  is  strange,"  Lexham  remarked,  "  that  we 
should  first  meet  when  we  were  lads  at  school  in  Eng- 
land, then  as  youths  in  Dresden,  and  now " 

"  Well,  I  have  never  in  my  life  felt  so  inquisitive, 
and  if  it  were  not  for  Guarini's  delicious  spaghetti  I 
should  ask  a  thousand  questions;  but  I  see  you  do' 
not  remember  me,"  said  Drake,  and  an  amused  smile 
lingered  round  his  mouth. 

"  No,  I  am  puzzled.  In  fact,  I  have  been  cudgel- 
ling my  brains  without  success.  I  cannot  place  you, 
yet  your  face — no,  not  your  face,  but  there  is  some- 
thing— oh,  I  don't  know  what  it  is." 

"  Don't  you  remember  Mr.  Drake?" 

"Drake?"    Gower  muttered. 

"  Yes,  I  was  almost  a  foster-father  to  you.  How 
unfilial  of  you  wholly  to  forget  one  who  shielded  you 
from  the  ear-cuffing  hand  of  your  adoptive  father!" 
and  Drake  heartily  laughed  at  some  reminiscence. 

"  Of  course,  now  I  remember  you.  The  secretary" 
— this  Gower  said  as  if  he  snapped  gladly  at  the  words, 
though  a  moment  after  he  learned  the  fact  no  beam  of 
satisfaction  lighted  up  his  face;  something  like  a  sneer 
came  and  passed.  Neither  Drake  nor  Lexham  noticed 
the  expression,  and  Gower  soon  recovered  his  usual 
composure.  Still,  he  felt  that  circumstance  had  played 
him  a  trick,  for  many  references  would  surely  be  made 
to  the  time  he  had  for  so  long  shut  out  of  his  mind. 
It  irritated  him  beyond  measure  to  realise  how  little 
he  really  knew  of  the  events  which  happened  while  he 
was  imprisoned  in  the  anteroom  of  youth.  He  had 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  17 

never  known  the  history  of  those  matters  which  it  now 
seemed  his  right  to  learn,  and  that  Drake  should  laugh 
when  he  spoke  of  his  adoptive  father  incensed  and 
stung  him.  His  vanity  was  pierced  by  a  laugh  which 
he  thought  had  the  envenomed  point  of  innuendo.  It 
rankled  and  further  increased  the  agitation  of  his 
mind. 

Drake  had  taken  more  than  his  share  of  the  Chianti, 
and  his  memory  needed  but  that  spur  to  set  it  speed- 
ing through  the  past.  He  lolled  on  his  chair,  stretched 
his  thin  legs,  threw  one  foot  over  the  other,  thrust  his 
hands  into  his  trousers'  pockets,  and  viewed  the  swift- 
moving  panorama  of  scenes  in  other  lands.  As  he 
viewed  he  marvelled,  and  wondered  why  he  had  not 
dug  up  the  splendid  material  and  made  history  of  it, 
so  real,  stirring,  and  full  of  the  dramatic  it  all  now 
seemed  to  him  to  be. 

"  Do  you  know  I  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  that 
drunken  scoundrel  of  an  adoptive  father  of  yours 
soundly  thrashed,"  said  Drake  with  great  zest,  as  if  he 
had  just  turned  his  eyes  from  a  mental  reproduction 
of  the  scene. 

"  Did  you  ?"  sneered  Gower.  "  I  thought  he  was  a 
fine  shot?" 

"At  clay  pigeons.  Plucking  birds  of  rich  plumage 
was  more  in  his  line.  But  you  can't  know  much  about 
his  criminal  accomplishments,  for  /  had  to  turn  nurse 
and  take  you  for  nice  long  walks.  One  day  you  did 
something  which  annoyed  him;  he  chased  you  round 
and  round  the  room;  you  were  screaming,  he  was 
cursing  and  flinging  articles  of  vertu  at  you  when  I 
entered  and  caught  a  vase  on  my  head.  See,  here  is 


i8  MADAME    BOHEMIA' 

the  mark;  I  can  almost  bury  the  point  of  my  finger 
in  it,"  and  Drake  brushed  back  his  hair  and  showed 
an  ugly  scar  on  his  forehead. 

Gower  with  compressed  lips  sat  motionless,  fearing 
the  slightest  movement  would  shake  the  fury  now 
raging  in  his  heart  and  almost  on  the  point  of  bursting. 
The  heat  of  his  passion  was  distilling  a  fearful  hatred 
for  Drake.  Gower  felt  an  acute  pain  in  the  back 
of  his  head,  a  pain  which  seemed  to  come  from  the 
tightening  of  his  jaws  and  the  strain  upon  the  cervical 
nerves.  All  this  contributed  to  his  vague  sense  of 
self-pity. 

"  How  that  thing  hated  you !  I  don't  think  a  child 
was  ever  so  hated  by  anything  in  human  shape.  I 
never  cared  for  youngsters  till  I  learned  the  anatomy 
of  his  hate.  You  were  a  prodigy,  and  prodigies  were 
to  me  freaks  of  nature,  most  uncanny  things.  You, 
with  your  golden  curls  and  pretty  face,  looked  like  a 
doll  of  high-class  German  workmanship  enclosing  a 
unique  mechanism.  But  only  a  human  toy  could  be 
so  hated  and  terrible.  Hate  breeds  pity  in  the  be- 
holder, and  in  your  case  pity  was  the  husk  of  love. 
How  strange  it  all  was;  for  when  I  first  met  you  I 
disliked  you,  you  were  so  petted  and  spoiled  by  your 
adoptive  mother " 

"  By  God !  you  leave  her  out  of  this.  I'll  not  Have 
her  name  dragged  through  your  cursed  reminis- 
cences," said  Gower,  whose  fury  burst  like  a  fierce  fire 
through  the  walls  of  a  building.  The  iron  bands  of 
Stoicism  he  had  spent  years  in  welding  were  torn  apart 
and  twisted  like  girders  after  terrific  heat.  His  face, 
which  was  cynically  pleasant,  was  now  furrowed  and 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  19 

frightfully  changed.  Malignancy  was  stamped  on 
every  feature.  He  shook  with  uncontrollable  anger. 
Lexham  was  astounded,  for  he  had  listened  to  Drake's 
reminiscences  without  any  thought  of  how  Gower 
would  take  them.  What  Drake  had  related  seemed 
impersonal  and  in  no  way  aspersive  or  aimed  to  taunt 
Gower. 

"  Well,  Gower,  I'm  sorry  you're  offended.  I  thought 
you  looked  like  one  made  impervious  by  such  events 
as  those  I  have  recounted/'  Drake  explained  in  a  half- 
apologetic  tone. 

"  Impervious !  No,  I  have  on  my  soul  the  scars 
of  too  many  wounds,  which  have  never  sufficiently 
healed  to  let  me  think  of  that  dreadful  man  without 
my  heart  quailing.  I  do  not  know  why  and  how  it 
happened.  It  is  a  Haunting  mystery  to  me.  It  blunts 
the  edge  of  my  reason  and  stirs  all  my  worst  impulses ; 
I  have  never  asked  her  to  explain  the  loathsome  past 
— no,  no  matter  how  much  I  craved  to  learn  the  cause 
of  our  careers  suddenly  terminating."  Gower's  voice 
now  sank  to  a  harsh  whisper  which  anger  made  terribly 
distinct :  "  For  five  years  my  young  mind  knew  no 
present  or  future ;  the  past,  octopus-like,  fastened  ten- 
tacles on  it  and  sucked  out  ambition  and  what  little 
good  was  in  me." 

The  apathy  whicH  Had  possessed  him  at  the  time 
of  which  he  spoke  was  now  reproduced  sympathetically 
in  his  voice  as  he  spoke  of  it — his  intent  eyes  seemed 
to  be  far  away  looking  at  it.  And  in  and  through  this 
dull,  hoarse  tone  of  voice  there  was  at  the  same  time 
audible  a  fierce  present  anger  at  the  recollection.  The 
effect  of  the  anger  speaking  through  that  obsessed  voice 


20  MADAME    BOHEMIA1 

was  uncanny  in  the  stillness  of  the  cellar.  Lexham 
looked  at  him  with  a  curious  wonder — the  man  had 
been  so  self-possessed,  so  calm,  so  cynical  almost,  when 
he  accosted  him  at  first. 

The  Wyoming  man  slept,  half  his  form  sprawling 
over  the  end  of  the  table.  Poor  Drake's  mind  was  sur- 
charged with  all  Gower  did  not  know,  the  why  and 
wherefore  of  it  all.  Lexham's  heart  was  flooded  with 
pity  for  Gower,  and  a  yearning  came  upon  him  to 
meet  once  again  the  woman  who  had  adopted  him — 
that  beautiful  woman  he  once  saw  when  her  name  was 
on  every  music-lover's  tongue. 

Drake  arose  and  went  in  search  of  his  hat,  which' 
he  found  under  the  table  on  which  the  sleeping  man 
had  eaten  his  dinner. 

"  I'm  sorry,  Gower,  very  sorry,"  said  Drake,  as  He 
returned  to  Lexham's  table. 

Gower  made  no  reply.  Perhaps  he  did  not  hear 
Drake's  voice. 

"Are  you  going?"   asked  Lexham. 

"  Yes,  I  have  a  lot  of  work  to  do."  Then  He  said 
to  Lexham  in  almost  a  whisper,  "  I'm  full  of  it,  and 
must  set  it  all  down  before  the  wheels  get  clogged. 
Good-night.  Many  thanks  for  the  dinner.  Hope  I 
shall  soon  meet  you  again.  I'll  tell  you  about  it 
Spiendid  tragedy,  and  it's  all  mine.  Good-night." 

Gower  stood  near  the  stove  in  deep  thought.  Drake 
turned  and  looked  at  him,  smiled,  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders, and  said  in  a  sympathetic  tone,  "  Good-night." 

Gower  did  not  move.  Lexham  was  almost  tempted 
to  make  Drake  stay  and  tell  Gower  the  whole  truth, 
for  good  or  ill,  for  he  thought  there  was  something 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  21 

unjust  in  the  knowledge  of  the  one  and  the  ignorance 
of  the  other,  and  that  Drake  should  unhesitatingly 
show  his  pleasure  in  withholding  the  truth  from  Gower 
filled  Lexham  with  feelings  of  pity  and  indignation. 
But  Drake  turned,  and  Lexham  saw  tears  in  his  eyes. 

"  If  you  should  be  here  when  our  Western  friend 
awakes,  tell  him  I  thought  sleep  more  to  his  purpose 
than  my  good-night,"  said  Drake,  and  he  went  down 
the  room. 

The  doors  swung  back,  and  Drake  was  soon  hurrying 
to  his  garret,  debating  whether  he  should  make  short 
stories  of  it  or  a  long  novel. 

Gower  with  a  weary  sigh  turned  to  Lexham  and 
stood  at  the  foot  of  the  table.  He  looked  long  and 
curiously  at  his  old  school-fellow.  There  was  pain  in 
the  searching  eyes,  and  there  was  nothing  to  set  them 
at  rest  or  ease  his  fretful  mind.  He  shook  his  head 
in  a  slow,  despondent  way. 

"  Won't  you  sit  down?"  Lexham  said. 

"  No,  what's  the  good  ?  Come  home  with  me,  or 
I  shall  be  tempted  to  refer  to  what  Drake  mentioned. 
Come !  I'm  sure  she  will  be  glad  to  meet  you  again," 
pleaded  Gower. 

"  She  would  not  remember  me ;  besides,  I  never 
go  out  to  meet  people,  and  I  haven't  spoken  to  a  woman 
for  so  long.  .  I  would  rather  not." 

"  But  you  must  come." 

"  Not  to-night.  Please  let  me  off.  I  should  like 
to  see  her,  but  somehow  I  feel  I  ought  not  to  go.  I 
can't  explain  why,  still,  a  peculiar  sense  of " 

"  What  ?  There  is  nothing  of  which  you  can  be 
superstitious,"  said  Gower  with  a  slight  smile.  "  Come 


22  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

on.  Here  is  your  coat.  You'll  say  she  hasn't  changed. 
She  doesn't  look  a  day  older,"  and  Cower*  helped  Lex- 
ham  on  with  his  coat. 

"  Hasn't  changed ;  doesn't  look  a  day  older,"  Lex- 
ham  murmured  to  himself.  A  fear  was  in  his  heart. 
He  was  half-alarmed,  but  why  he  knew  not.  He  paid 
his  bill  and  bade  Guarini  good-night. 

"Is  it  far?"    he  asked. 

"No,"  replied  Cower;  "five  minutes'  walk.  You 
will  come?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Lexham ;  "  but  only  for  an  hour." 


CHAPTER    II 

ELINOR  KEMBLETON  had  two  large  rooms  on  trie 
second  floor  of  a  good  lodging-house  near  Sixth 
Avenue.  The  front  room  was  hers,  and  though  the 
carpets,  furniture,  and  hangings  were  the  property  of 
the  good  lady  who  owned  the  house,  an  hundred  and 
one  artistic  things  which  were  Elinor's  own  made 
pretty  a  place  which  without  them  would  have  seemed 
dowdy. 

She  sat  in  a  low  large  chair  busily  embroidering  a 
cloth.  A  large  fire  threw  flashes  of  light  on  her  beau- 
tiful face,  and  a  cheerful  glow  across  the  centre  made 
darker  the  two  ends  of  the  room.  On  a  table  near  her 
chair  stood  a  lighted  lamp,  a  small  painting  of  a  golden- 
haired  boy,  and  several  old  quaint  articles,  one  a  fan 
of  peculiar  workmanship  which  had  been  several  times 
mended.  The  table  and  the  things  upon  it  seemed 
to  belong  to  Elinor,  and  as  she  sat  near  it  one  could 
at  a  glance  see  how  things  sometimes  look  like  the 
owner,  particularly  if  the  owner  be  a  woman. 

In  an  alcove  near  the  door  of  the  room,  behind  a 
Japanese  screen,  which  did  not  belong  to  Elinor,  were 
a  folding-bed,  a  wash-stand,  and  small  dressing-table. 
All  toilet  articles  usually  found  in  bedrooms  were 
during  the  day  hidden  behind  the  screen. 

From  over  the  mantel-piece  a  painting  of  Liszt 
looked  sternly  across  the  room  at  a  photograph  of 
Wagner.  Near  one  of  the  two  windows  stood  a  desk- 

23 


24  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

bookcase,  which  contained  perhaps  fifty  volumes  of 
good  novels.  The  open  desk,  most  neatly  kept,  had 
pigeon-holes  full  of  letters,  bills,  and  contracts.  A 
brass  Atlas  stood  upon  a  pile  of  letters  to  be  answered. 
Hanging  behind  the  inkstand  was  a  miniature  of  a 
fair-haired  young  man. 

Mrs.  Pollack,  the  landlady,  knocked  on  the  door  and 
entered. 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Kembleton,  I  have  come  to  wish  you  a 
happy  New  Year,"  was  the  greeting  of  the  landlady. 
"  I  did  not  see  you  during  the  day." 

"  Thank  you,  Mrs.  Pollack,"  returned  Elinor,  and, 
rising,  took  the  landlady's  hand,  which  she  pressed. 
'  The  same  to  you,  and  many  more  happy  years." 

"  Mr.  Gower  is  out  ?  Have  you  been  alone  all 
day?" 

"  No,  not  all  day,"  she  pleasantly  replied. 

"  Should  I  light  the  fire  in  Mr.  Gower's  room  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  please.  I  thought  it  was  brightly  burn- 
ing," said  Elinor,  and  she  looked  quite  concerned. 

"  It  is  a  bitter  night,  but  the  room  will  soon  be 
warm.  Good-night." 

"  Good-night."  She  listened  and  heard  Mrs.  Pol- 
lack go  into  the  next  room,  strike  a  match,  and  soon 
the  crackling  of  the  burning  wood  satisfied  her.  She 
went  to  one  of  the  large  windows,  pulled  aside  the 
blind  and  looked  out.  The  snow  was  being  blown 
up  the  street  in  great  drifts,  to  the  accompaniment 
of  shrill  and  mournful  sounds  caused  by  the  wind 
rushing  through  the  telegraph-wires  encrusted  with 
ice.  Elinor  shuddered  and  felt  cold,  though  her 
hands  and  face  were  warm.  She  had  been  all  even-> 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  25 

ing  alone,  and  it  was  now  about  ten  o'clock,  still  her 
heart  was  free  from  sadness,  and  her  mind  was  at 
rest.  It  was  the  first  New  Year's  evening  she  had  been 
alone. 

She  returned  to  the  table  near  her  chair,  took  up  the 
painting  of  the  golden-haired  boy,  and  looked  long 
and  earnestly  at  the  face.  A  smile,  so  sweet,  warmed 
her  soul,  and  the  tears  that  came  into  her  eyes  when 
she  stood  at  the  window  fell  upon  the  face  of  the  boy's 
portrait. 

The  thud  of  the  front  door  closing  echoed  through' 
the  house.  Elinor  replaced  the  portrait  and  walked 
to  her  door.  The  sound  of  men's  voices  and  the 
shaking  of  clothes  made  her  heart  beat  fast.  One 
voice  she  knew.  She  returned  to  the  fire,  for  she 
heard  the  men  talking  as  they  mounted  the  stairs. 

Gower  and  Lexham  entered  the  room. 

"  I  have  brought  Lexham ;  you  haven't  seen  him 
since  he  was  a  boy,"  said  Gower,  going  to  her  and 
touching  her  cheek  with  his  lips. 

"  Lexham !"   murmured  Elinor. 

"  Yes.  We  were  at  the  same  school,  and  you  met 
him  afterwards  in  Dresden." 

She  had  put  out  her  hand  to  Lexham,  who  took  it. 
A  grateful,  warm  thrill  passed  through  him  as  he  felt 
her  fingers  close  around  his  own  and  saw  her  eyes 
resting  on  his  face,  while  a  look  of  inquiry  took  pos- 
session of  her  brow  and  mouth. 

"  Yes,  I  remember.  I'm  glad  to  see  you,  Gilbert. 
Yes,  Gilbert  is  your  name.  Sit  in  my  chair.  You 
look  very  cold;  your  hands  are  almost  frozen,"  she 
said,  and  pushed  her  chair  nearer  the  fire. 


26  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

Gower  had  thrown  himself  into  a  comfortable  chair, 
and  began  to  take  off  his  shoes. 

"  Where  are  my  slippers  ?"  he  asked,  stretching  out 
his  legs  and  placing  his  feet  on  the  fender. 

"  In  your  room;   I'll  -get  them,  dear." 

"  Do.  I'm  very  tired ;  ploughing  through  the  snow 
was  hard  work,  wasn't  it,  Lexham?" 

Elinor  went  for  the  slippers  and  stayed  a  moment  in 
his  room  to  poke  the  fire. 

Lexham  was  surprised  to  find  her  quite  as  beautiful 
as  she  was  when  he  first  saw  her.  He  could  not 
imagine  why  he  hesitated  when  Gower  asked  him  to 
spend  an  hour  in  her  society.  He  was  at  times  con- 
scious of  his  ill-clad  appearance,  but  it  did  not  occur 
to  him  when  he  met  Gower  at  Guarini's.  His  vague 
alarms  were  now  dissipated.  He  had  not  for  several 
years  been  long  in  the  company  of  such  a  woman, 
and  the  sweet  sense  of  her  presence  when  she  held 
his  hand  in  greeting  filled  him  with  a  pleasant  sen- 
sation of  intimacy.  His  life  since  he  landed  in  Amer- 
ica had  been  one  of  privation,  almost  of  solitude.  He 
had  made  very  few  friends,  and  his  natural  inclinations 
were  those  of  the  student  for  love  of  study.  Still  he 
knew  his  heart  often  ached  for  the  balm  of  an  intel- 
lectual woman's  companionship.  He  had  met  many' 
actresses,  journalists,  and  boarding-house  lodgers,  but 
never  a  woman  to  love.  He  had  for  some  years  played 
the  part  of  a  woman-hater  and  made  himself  imper- 
turbable to  their  silly  flatteries  and  fondnesses.  He 
was  afraid  of  his  susceptibilities,  and  knew  he  would 
surely  be  the  one  to  suffer,  for  the  women  he  had  met 
were  mentally  incapable  of  lasting  affection. 


MADAME    BOHEMIA1  27 

Elinor  returned  and  gave  Gower  his  slippers.  As 
she  stood  before  the  fire,  Lexham  marvelled  at  her 
beauty,  though  he  would  have  said  her  beauty  was 
not  all  that  attracted  him.  There  was  something  so 
warm,  firm,  and  soulful  about  her  form.  Her  un- 
studied grace  and  soft  voice  irresistibly  charmed  the 
senses.  She  seemed  to  soften  all  the  hard  effects  in 
the  room,  and  even  Gower's  brooding  face  caught  some 
of  her  radiance,  and  he  looked  up,  smiled  and  caught 
her  hand,  which  he  pressed  with  an  air  of  condescen- 
sion. 

Lexham  wondered  why  she  had  not  again  married. 
He  thought  she  could  not  be  more  than  thirty-five, 
if  she  were  that.  The  question  why  she  had  not  mar- 
ried seemed  unanswerable. 

He  had  not  thought  of  the  dreadful  past  Drake  had 
spoken  of. 

"  Take  off  your  coat,  Gilbert,"  she  said ;  "  you  will 
surely  stay  for  an  hour." 

"  My  coat.  Oh,  I  must  not  stay.  I  have  a  lot 
of  work  to  finish,"  said  Lexham,  rather  embar- 
rassed. 

"  He  has  on  only  that  coat.  But  Diva  will  not 
mind."  Diva  was  Gower's  pet  name  for  Elinor. 

"  No  coat  under  that,"  she  muttered  to  herself. 
"  Cyril,  you  can  lend  Gilbert  a  coat  for  an  hour. 
Take  him  to  your  room." 

"  Of  course.  Come,  Lexham,"  said  Gower,  osten- 
tatiously. 

"  I  would  rather  not.  I  shall  have  to  go  in  a 
minute  or  two,"  said  Lexham,  as  he  rose. 

"  Nonsense,  you  will  stay  to  have  a  bite  of  supper 


28  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

with  us.  Come,  you  may  have  my  smoking-jacket," 
and  Gower  led  the  way  to  the  door. 

"  No  coat,"  thought  Elinor.  She  sank  into  her 
chair,  and  wondered  why  Lexham  had  but  one  coat. 
Gower  had  five  coats,  and  he  had  often  said  he  could 
not  do  with  less.  She  had  noticed  Lexham  did  not 
have  the  appearance  of  a  man  who  gave  much  attention 
to  his  attire,  and  she  now  remembered  he  looked  pale 
and  far  from  well. 

"  I  wonder  why  he  left  England,"  she  said  to  her- 
self. 

Gower  returned  with  Lexham,  who  wore  the 
smoking-jacket,  which  did  not  fit  him.  It  covered 
his  back  and  arms,  and  he  strove  to  forget  he  had 
it  on,  for  he  disliked  wearing  another's  coat.  If  it 
had  been  a  royal  cloak  he  could  not  have  been  more 
uncomfortable.  Lexham's  antipathy  to  garish  ap- 
parel or  fashionable  clothes  amounted  to  abomina- 
tion. 

Elinor  was  seated  in  front  of  the  fire  between  the 
men.  The  clock  struck  eleven.  Gower  yawned  and 
pushed  his  head  into  a  cosy  corner  of  the  chair. 

"  When  did  you  leave  England,  Gilbert?"  she  asked. 

"  Nearly  five  years  ago,"  he  replied. 

"  Lexham  has  had  the  devil's  own  time  of  it  since 
then.  He  told  me  of  some  of  his  experiences. 
Ulysses  could  not  have  survived  such  hardship,"  said 
Gower,  without  moving  his  head. 

"  Hardship,"  repeated  Elinor,  and  she  leaned 
towards  Lexham,  her  face  all  tender  inquiry  and 
anxiety. 

"  Tell  her  about  some  of  your  travels,"  said  Gower ; 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  29 

"  she  is  already  inquisitive,  and  her  appetite  for  hor- 
rors is  an  insatiable  one." 

"Where  did  you  and  Cyril  meet?"   she  asked. 

"  At  Guarini's,"  grunted  Grower.  "  He  was  dining 
with  that  idiot  of  a  Drake " 

"Drake!  what  Drake?"  asked  Elinor,  turning 
quickly  from  Lexham  to  Gower.  The  latter  thought 
he  had  done  the  very  thing  which  he  wished  to  avoid, 
but  to  Elinor  Drake  was  only  a  familiar  name.  It 
did  not  awaken  the  memories  Gower  for  his  own  mind's 
sake  was  loath  to  arouse. 

"A  great  big  bully  insulted  Lexham,  so  he  knocked 
him  down,"  Gower  quickly  interposed. 

"A  fight?"   said  Elinor  anxiously. 

"  No ;  Lexham  didn't  give  him  a  chance  to  fight." 

"  Did  it  happen  in  Guarini's  place?" 

;<  Yes ;  but  it  is  not  worth  speaking  about.  The 
poor  fellow  was  not  wholly  to  blame;  I  was  churlish 
and  he  was  irritable,"  Lexham  explained. 

"  Look  here,  Diva,  I'm  deuced  hungry.  Guarini's 
dinner  was  good  but  not  satisfying,  and  Lexham  must 
be  hungry  too,  for  he  was  interrupted  during  dinner 
knocking  down  and  picking  up  fellows.  Have  you 
got  a  bite?"  asked  Gower,  who  sat  up  in  his  chair. 

"  My  dear  Cyril,  you  said  you  would  probably  have 
supper  at  the  Studio,"  said  Elinor,  surprised  at  Gower's 
inopportune  request. 

"  I  know  I  did,"  said  Gower,  testily;  "  but  you  know 
I  like  an  omelette  if  I  have  to  work  at  night." 

"  Well,  dear,  I'm  sorry  the  larder  is  bare,"  she  re- 
torted, in  a  tone  which  struck  Lexham  as  being  rather 
resentful. 


30  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

"  Please  don't  consider  me,  Mrs.  Kembleton ;  I  could 
not  eat  any  supper,"  he  interposed. 

"  You  could  if  supper  were  on  the  table,"  Gower  re- 
turned. "  It's  always  the  way  when  I  bring  in  a  fel- 
low. Diva  is  so  confoundedly  economical,  and  if  I 
did  not  sometimes  complain  she  would  forget  I  have 
an  appetite." 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  so,"  she  said,  with  a  quick  sigH. 

Elinor  had  had  two  eggs  and  some  bread  and  butter 
for  her  dinner. 

"  I  think  I  shall  put  on  my  boots  and  go  to  the  Studio 
for  an  hour,"  said  Gower. 

"  No,  Cyril,  don't  go  out.  It  is  a  terrible  night," 
she  pleaded,  in  a  grieved  tone. 

Lexham  was  surprised  at  Gower's  sudden  decision. 
He  could  not  believe  it  possible  that  a  man  should 
dream  of  leaving  that  room  on  such  a  night,  no  matter 
how  hungry  he  might  be.  Gower's  form  seemed  to 
shrink  to  the  size  of  the  boy  he  knew  at  school,  and  the 
man's  clothes  changed  to  those  he  first  saw  on  his 
school-fellow.  A  complete  metamorphosis  seemed  in 
a  moment  to  take  place.  There  before  him  stood  a 
peevish  boy,  surely  not  a  man,  a  boy  spoiled  and  blind 
to  all  the  good  gifts  near  him. 

Gower  went  to  the  window  and  looked  out.  The 
miserable  lamp  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  street  made 
a  dirty  yellow  disk-like  light,  in  and  around  which  the 
heavy  snowflakes  whirled. 

Elinor  had  watched  him  go  to  the  window,  and  as 
he  closed  the  blind  and  turned  she  went  to  him,  and 
said, — 

"It  is  not  a  fit  night  for  anyone  to  be  abroad." 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  31 

"  Haven't  you  got  anything  at  all  to  eat?"  he  asked. 

"  Cyril,  I  could  not  go  out  to  market  to-day.  I  have 
not  been  well.  It  has  not  ceased  snowing  since  morn- 
ing. I  am  sorry,  dear,  but  I  can't  help  it,"  she  said, 
taking  his  hand  and  gently  leading  him  to  his  chair. 

"  I  think  I  shall  do  some  work.  You  have  a  chat 
with  Lexham.  I  don't  feel  sociable.  You  understand, 
Lexham.  That  row  at  Guarini's  upset  me.  Look  into 
my  room  before  you  leave.  We  rarely  go  to  bed  be- 
fore one  o'clock." 

The  door  closed  behind  him.  Elinor  stood  for  a 
moment  in  deep  thought.  How  tall  she  seemed  to 
Lexham  as  he  sat  in  the  low  chair!  Turning  aside 
her  head  she  listened  for  a  sound  from  the  next 
room.  As  if  from  an  immeasurable  distance  came  the 
regular  tread  of  Gower  as  he  paced  up  and  down  his 
room.  Lexham's  soul  went  out  to  the  patient  woman, 
and  a  sob  of  pity  rose  to  his  throat.  A  thousand  ex- 
pressions came  to  his  mind,  expressions  of  solicitude, 
compassion,  excuse,  and  explanation,  but  not  one  did 
he  dare  to  utter. 

Then  he  thought,  "  What  tragedy  is  this  ?"  but  no 
reasonable  solution  could  he  find.  He  felt  a  sudden 
impulse  to  rush  out,  find  Drake,  and  ask  "  Why,  why 
does  she  suffer?  What  mystery  enfolds  her?"  The 
world  seemed  to  close  in  on  him  and  leave  in  a  small 
space  four  pitiable  figures,  three  alien  to  one  another, 
the  fourth,  Drake,  with  a  sneer-like  smile  hiding  the 
knowledge  of  it  all  and  deaf  to  entreaty. 

Her  breast  rose  and  fell  as  she  smothered  a  great 
sigh.  She  turned  to  the  chair  and  was  about  to  sit 
down,  when  she  looked  at  Lexham. 


32  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

Neither  had  spoken  since  Gower  left  the  room. 

"  Do  you  smoke  ?"  she  asked,  breaking  a  long 
silence,  in  which  heart  communications  were  far  too 
deep  for  words,  and  the  powers  of  language  were  in- 
adequate. 

"  Yes,"  said  Lexham ;  "  but  I  can  afford  only  a  pipe, 
and  that  I  left  in  my  room." 

Elinor  went  to  her  desk,  and  from  it  took  a  box  of 
cigarettes,  which  she  placed  on  the  table  at  Lexham's 
side. 

He  took  one  and  lighted  it.  She  sank  in  the  chair 
Gower  had  occupied. 

Lexham  could  not  speak.  Words  were  then  as  rare 
to  him  as  jewels,  and  far  beyond  his  finding  or  pur- 
chase. The  cigarette  was  forgotten.  All  his  mind 
gathered  in  his  eyes,  and  they  were  fastened  on  her 
face,  which,  in  all  its  wondrous  phases,  told  of  a  deep 
buried  emotional  storm. 

Softly  from  the  other  room  came  the  mediating  noc- 
turne,— one  of  Liszt's.  The  melody  seemed  to  rise 
like  a  heart-throb  and  fall  as  a  soothing  palm  upon  an 
aching  brow.  The  echoes  seemed  drenched  with  tears. 
It  lingered  in  its  haunting  passage  and  left  in  its  wake 
the  mist  of  tears. 

The  effect  of  the  music  on  Lexham  was  peculiar, 
and  he  at  first  did  not  associate  Gower  with  what  he 
heard.  He  did  not  once  look  at  Elinor's  face  during 
the  first  part.  The  potency  of  the  theme's  own  charm 
was  undeniable.  But  he  knew  the  nocturne,  he  had 
heard  it  played  by  many  eminent  pianists ;  and  though 
it  was  not  now  played  so  well  as  many  he  could  name 
had  played  it,  still  he  had  never  before  been  so  moved. 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  33 

What  was  the  cause  ?  Lexham  was  exceedingly  criti- 
cal when  his  ideal  conception  of  anything  was  in  any 
way  assailed.  The  theme  had  never  before  seemed 
so  haunting,  so  pleading.  There  was  now  no  great 
love  crying ;  the  theme  was  full  of  pity, — pity  with  an 
anger  in  behind  it  demanding  satisfaction.  The  noc- 
turne was  transformed.  The  pianist  was  lending  to 
it  another  and  far  different  meaning  than  Liszt's. 
Lexham  did  not  realise  all  this  till  the  second  part  of 
the  theme  was  nearly  at  end.  Then  he  looked  at 
Elinor's  face,  and  was  surprised  to  see  it  wear  an  ex- 
pression of  sorrow.  Was  this  in  some  strange,  sub- 
conscious way  a  part  of  the  tragedy?  Lexham  was 
now  sure  the  memory  of  his  former  hearings  of  the 
theme  had  been  stirred,  and  that  it  was  not  this  read- 
ing that  had  affected  him  as  he  at  first  imagined.  But 
the  pianist  was  now  repeating  the  first  theme,  and  still 
he  was  again  moved  almost  to  tears. 

Surely  Gower  could  not  give  such  exquisite  ex- 
pression to  the  melody.  What  strange  influence 
prompted  him  to  touch  the  piano?  What  memory 
gently  led  him  to  the  instrument  he  disliked,  but  kept 
merely  as  a  necessary  medium? 

"Have  you  ever  loved  anything,  Gilbert?"  asked 
Elinor,  without  looking  at  him. 

"  Yes,  but  it  did  not  last,"  said  Lexham,  not  in  the 
least  surprised  at  the  question. 

"Was  she  worthy?" 

"  She  had  a  child's  mind,  not  a  woman's.  I  met 
her  in  Boston  three  years  ago.  Her  parents  were  well 
to  do,  and  I  was  then  a  clerk  in  a  large  dry-goods  store. 
Misfortune  sent  me  away  to  better  my  position  with  a 

3 


34  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

i 

view  to  marrying  her,  but  a  firm  of  swindlers  left  me 
penniless  far  from  a  large  town.  Necessity  again 
turned  me  to  the  dry-goods  business  in  Worcester. 
She  came  to  the  annual  ball  of  the  employes  of  the 
store  in  which  I  worked.  A  long-desired  meeting  it 
was,  for  we  had  been  five  months  separated.  She 
did  intend  to  return  to  Boston  by  the  late  train,  but 
a  happy  night  made  us  forgetful,  and  not  until  long 
past  the  hour  of  that  train's  departure  did  I  realise 
she  could  not  leave  Worcester  till  the  next  morn- 
ing." 

"  What  did  you  do  ?"  asked  Elinor,  who  had  be- 
come deeply  interested  in  the  story  Lexham  hardly 
knew  he  was  relating.  He  might  have  been  telling  a 
story  in  which  he  had  played  no  part. 

"A  fellow-employe  and  I  had  two  rooms  in  a  house 
where  we  did  not  board.  She  passed  the  night  in  my 
room,  and  my  friend  shared  with  me  his  bed." 

"How  old  was  she?"  murmured  Elinor,  touching 
his  arm.  A  generous  action,  which  Lexham  hardly 
noticed. 

"About  nineteen,  and  young  for  her  age.  Next 
morning  I  was  surprised  to  see  her  father  walk  into 
the  store,  some  time  after  she  had  left  for  her  home. 
In  a  moment  I  knew  his  errand.  He  was  angry  and 
said  many  abusive  things,  and  then  wanted  me  to 
marry  her.  My  friend  and  I  at  length  succeeded  in 
half-convincing  him  that  he  had  on  his  daughter's 
account  no  cause  for  alarm.  I  have  never  seen  her 
since  that  morning." 

She  had  watched  Lexham's  face  during  the  latter 
part  of  his  story.  With  a  sigh  she  turned  in  her  chair 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  35 

and  looked  into  the  fire,  and  said,  "  Why  did  you  leave 
England,  Gilbert?" 

"  My  father  and  I  did  not  agree.  I  was  a  wild 
youth  always  in  trouble,"  he  said,  and  shrugged  his 
shoulders,  then  added,  "  but,  I  suppose,  I  was  never 
understood.  My  mother,  I  think,  instinctively  felt  my 
nature  was  rather  peculiar.  She  bore  with  me,  and 
sometimes  succeeded  in  prevailing  upon  me  to  please 
my  father." 

"  But  when  I  met  you  you  were  a  well-behaved 
youth  and  had  won  many  honours  at  school." 

"  Yes,  but  those  honours  I  won  to  please  my  father. 
I  made  a  clever  parrot  of  myself,  that  was  all.  They 
sent  me  to  London  to  take  up  medicine,  but  association 
with  men  several  years  older  than  myself  saved  me 
from  a  life  of  misery.  One  night  a  man  read  and  ex- 
plained to  me  the  chapter  on  Pedagogy  from  '  Sartor 
Resartus.'  There,  as  in  a  mirror,  I  saw  my  wretched 
self,  and  after  that  night  I  plunged  headlong  into  the 
whirlpool  of  distraction.  During  two  years  in  London 
I  ran  the  gamut  of  natural  vices." 

Elinor's  chair  had  drawn  closer  to  Lexham.  He 
did  not  stop  to  think  why  he  should  tell  her  parts  of 
his  history.  It  did  not  occur  to  her  that  he  was  un- 
burdening much  he  could  not  tell  to  others.  That  he 
was  a  youth  when  she  last  saw  him,  and  was  now  a 
man  whose  life  had  been  full  of  vicissitude  and  events 
which  would  probably  shock  good  society,  did  not 
in  any  way  cause  the  slightest  apprehension.  If  one 
had  then  asked  her  why  she  listened  to  the  reprehensi- 
ble experiences  of  a  young  man,  she  would  not  have 
been  able  to  find  a  reason. 


36  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

Her  eyes  filled  with  tears  when  he  hinted  more  than 
told  of  his  distraction,  but  he  did  not  think  it  strange 
that  she  should  not  hide  her  compassion.  The  com- 
munication was  spontaneous  and  direct.  Each  mind 
absorbed  the  other.  Time,  place,  and  mood  combined, 
and  all  formalities  held  aloof  and  dared  not  trespass. 

The  little  clock  upon  the  mantel  struck  the  quarters, 
but  their  ears  were  deaf  to  the  tale  of  time.  The 
under  embers  in  the  fireplace  fell  and  left  no  support 
for  the  heaped-up  coals  which,  formed  a  bridge  across 
the  top  of  the  deep  grate.  The  black  bridge  gave  way, 
and  with  a  roar  the  flames  flashed  through  the  inter- 
stices in  the  coal  and  wrapped  their  figures  in  a  warm 
glow  of  light. 

She  thought  of  Gower's  youth  and  how  she  had  con- 
trived to  shield  him  from  all  taat  Lexham  had  suffered. 
He  was  at  Weimar  with  Liszt  when  Lexham  was  in 
London  running  through  the  lane  of  distraction.  How 
far  removed  they  were!  She  did  not  even  subcon- 
sciously make  comparisons.  The  antithesis  was  too 
great.  Gower  had  been,  and  now  was,  the  recipient 
of  all  the  love  she  had  ever  given. 

Gower  had  several  times  during  Lexham' s  story  been 
attacked  by  a  fit  of  coughing,  but  she  did  not  hear  the 
sound. 

"  What  are  you  now  doing,  Gilbert  ?"  asked  Elinof. 

"  I  am  a  super  at  the  Broadway  Theatre,  where 
Booth  and  Modjeska  are  appearing,"  Lexham  replied, 
and  he  smiled  at  her  surprise. 

"A  super?"   she  repeated. 

"  Yes.  I  earn  a  few  dollars  a  week ;  that  is  all  I 
at  present  require.  You  see  I  have  to  relearn  one- 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  37 

tenth  of  the  studies  I  swallowed.  I  need  whole  days, 
and  supering  is  the  easiest  and  best  paid  work,  for, 
excepting  Saturdays,  when  two  performances  are  given, 
I  am  free  till  eight  in  the  evenings." 

"  Would  you  care  to  be  an  actor  ?" 

"  No !"  replied  Lexham,  with  great  emphasis.  "A 
year  or  two  ago,  when  everything  I  tried  failed,  I 
thought  I  might  join  a  travelling  company,  so  I  wrote 
to  a  manager  who  had  several  provincial  companies. 
One  day  I  called  upon  him  at  his  theatre  in  town. 
He  seemed  to  think  I  had  the  necessary  qualifications, 
and  to  my  surprise  he  introduced  me  to  Dion  Boucicault, 
who  had  a  school  of  acting.  He  told  me  not  to  waste 
my  time,  but  I  do  not  regret  the  months  I  spent  at 
his  school,  for  from  him  I  learned  a  thousand  things 
which  have  been,  and  will  be,  of  great  service.  Many 
were  the  delightful  talks  we  had,  and  though  he  paid 
more  attention  to  the  pupils  who  paid  for  tuition  (I 
was  a  protege  of  the  manager's),  he  gave  me  his  con- 
fidence and  advice.  Since  I  have  been  a  super  the 
opportunities  for  observing  the  methods  of  actors  and 
stage-managers  when  rehearsing  have  been  many.  Yes, 
I  like  the  stage,  but  have  no  desire  to  be  an  actor." 

"What  do  you  wish  to  be?"   asked  Elinor. 

"  I  don't  know.  I  have  been  such  a  miserable  failure, 
I  dare  not  seriously  think  of  adopting  any  particular 
profession  or  trade.  Perhaps  I  have  studied  my  own 
weaknesses  too  much.  I  may  ask  of  myself  more  than 
it  would  really  be  necessary  to  give." 

"  One  may  be  too  exacting,  and  I  feel  sure  you 
would  be  generous  to  all  but  yourself.  Do  you  live 
alone?"  she  asked,  with  wistful  eyes. 


38  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

"  Yes,  quite  alone.  I  go  from  my  room  straight  to 
the  theatre  and  return  as  I  went." 

"  Have  you  no  friends  ?" 

"  No,  no  friends.  Men  do  not  find  me  what  they 
call  sociable,  and  the  fellows  I  work  with  at  the  theatre 
shun  me;  I  think  they  look  upon  me  as  a  joke.  Of 
course  my  clothes  are  shabby  and  I  cannot  afford  the 
luxuries  of  the  bar-room.  I  sometimes  forget  I  haven't 
money  when  I  want  to  buy  food.  But  then  I  make 
myself  think  it  is  all  for  a  purpose,  and  that  when 
money  is  hard  to  get  I  have  only  myself  to  think  of — 
and  to  blame." 

A  sigh  of  great  weariness  escaped  him.  He  passed 
his  hand  across  his  brow.  Elinor  thought  she  had 
never  seen  on  any  face  so  hopeless  an  expression.  The 
whole  man  seemed  to  her  quite  changed  to  a  figure  of 
despair. 

Her  hand  fell  on  his.  It  was  so  warm  and  soft 
he  dared  not  move  or  notice  her  kind,  spontaneous 
action.  The  touch  of  her  hand,  the  gentleness  of  her 
manner,  and  again  that  wistful  look  from  her  eyes  for 
a  moment  brought  rest  to  his  heart. 

He  felt  no  passionate  thrill,  and  she  must  have  in- 
stinctively known  her  action  could  not  be  misconstrued, 
for  it  was  all  so  simple,  so  unstudied. 

"  Have  you  no  ambition  ?"  Elinor  pleaded  more  than 
asked,  and  unconsciously  took  away  her  hand  from  his 
and  drew  her  chair  nearer. 

"  No,"  he  answered,  "  I  have  no  ambition,  save  that 
of  living  to  read  and  think.  Since  I  left  London  the 
word  failure  has  incessantly  rung  in  my  ears.  When 
I  reached  New  York  I  found  employment  in  a  whole- 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  39 

sale  fruit  store  in  Washington  Street.  There  I  worked 
with  the  scum  of  the  earth.  We  began  at  midnight, 
and  I  continued  all  day  till  six  and  sometimes  eight 
o'clock  in  the  evening.  I  heard  one  of  my  employers 
once  say  it  was  a  dog's  life.  Dog's  life !  It  was  worse 
than  a  Siberian  convict's  life,  for  he  knew  his  crime 
and  accepted  the  punishment.  I  was  a  convict  of  neces- 
sity, and  not  until  my  health  was  shattered  did  I  realise 
the  awful  punishment  of  labour.  When  I  left  the  hos- 
pital I  searched  in  vain  for  light  work.  Of  book- 
keeping and  office-work  I  knew  nothing.  What  was 
open  to  me?  Only  such  work  as  that  which  nearly 
killed  me.  The  winter  came  before  I  found  a  perma- 
nent position.  Strikes  were  prevalent.  The  curse  of 
capital  fell  upon  labour,  and  millionaires  closed  the 
doors  of  factories  on  millions  of  starving  men,  women, 
and  children.  Crime  and  bloodshed  went  hand  in  hand 
with  cold  and  hunger.  What  chance  had  I?  One 
day  I  found  myself  in  the  stoke-hole  of  a  steamer  bound 
for  the  West  Indies,  and  for  a  time  escaped  the  dread- 
ful winter.  When  I  returned  to  New  York  the  winter 
was  far  advanced,  but  for  several  weeks  I  had  great 
difficulty  in  finding  meagre  food  and  bare  lodging." 

"  How  terrible !"  was  all  Elinor  could  say. 

Lexham  had  never  before  told  anyone  of  his  ex- 
periences. He  had  suffered  in  silence.  Many  times 
his  soul  had  been  stirred  by  righteous  indignation  at 
the  misery  of  others,  but  he  had  never  one  jot  of  pity 
for  himself.  He  never  saw  himself  in  the  fight.  He 
saw  around  him  the  warring  parties,  but  never  realised 
he  too  was  fighting. 

Elinor  suddenly  remembered  the  storm ;  she  started, 


40  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

rose,  and  quickly  left  the  room.  He  heard  her  open 
and  close  the  door  of  Gower's  room.  It  was  nearly  two 
o'clock.  Lexham  sank  back  in  his  chair  and  felt  the 
languor  of  weariness  come  upon  him,  a  strange  lassi- 
tude of  mind  and  a  numbness  of  the  limbs.  He  felt 
as  if  he  had  journeyed  from  afar  to  reach  a  goal  of 
rest  and  happiness,  and  that  then  when  he  had  gained 
the  threshold  of  the  long  desired  paradise,  the  exertion 
had  been  too  much  for  his  impoverished  body, — it 
collapsed  before  he  could  enjoy  the  benefits  of  realisa- 
tion. He  struggled  with  the  torpor  and  feared  his 
weakness.  He  tried  to  rise,  but  some  unseen  power 
held  him  down.  The  awful  vague  sense  of  a  great 
weight  slowly  falling  over  him  made  the  last  chaotic 
moments  of  semi-consciousness  terrible.  His  eyes 
closed  and  chaos  was  swallowed  up  in  death-like  sleep. 

Gower  was  at  his  work-table  poring  over  the  score 
of  an  opera  on  which  he  had  for  some  months  been  at 
work.  He  had  forgotten  Lexham.  When  Elinor 
entered  his  room  he  started  and  looked  bewildered  to 
see  her  at  such  an  hour. 

"  Cyril,  Lexham  is  in  no  fit  condition  to  leave  the 
house  to-night.  He  must  stay  here !"  she  said. 

There  was  a  peremptoriness  in  her  voice,  a  tone 
which  Gower  had  never  before  heard.  He  looked  in 
amazement  at  her. 

"Stay  here?"    he  repeated. 

"  Yes ;  the  storm  is  getting  worse.  He  can  sleep 
on  your  sofa/'  Elinor  explained,  as  she  began  to  clear 
the  vocal  scores  and  sheet  music  off  the  dingy  article, 
which  she  afterwards  pulled  away  from  the  window. 

"  He  can't  stay  here.     I'm  going  to  work,  and  you 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  41 

know  I  can  do  nothing  when  not  alone,"  said  Gower, 
and  he  pushed  back  the  sofa  to  its  former  position. 

"  But,  Cyril,  it  would  be  most  inhuman  of  us  to  let 
him  go.  I  am  sure  the  streets  by  now  are  almost  im- 
passable," she  said,  and  grief  softened  her  tone. 

"  The  streets  were  not  so  bad  when  we  walked  from 
Guarini's.  You  imagine  too  much.  Leave  me  alone. 
I  have  found  several  mistakes  in  my  score,  and  I  must 
correct  them  before  I  send  it  away." 

"  But  what  am  I  to  do  ?"  she  asked,  and  great  tears 
stood  in  her  eyes ;  but  Gower  had  a  way  of  not  always 
looking  at  the  person  speaking. 

"Do?  Tell  him  you  are  tired  and  I  have  gone  to 
bed.  Here  is  his  coat,"  he  said,  handing  Lexham's 
coat  to  Elinor. 

"  I  shall  do  no  such  thing.    It  would  be  a  cruel  lie." 

"Well,  I  cannot  be  bothered  with  him.  I'm  very 
sorry  I  met  him,  and  if  it  had  not  been  for  that  cursed 
Drake " 

"Drake!     What  Drake?" 

"  Oh,  you  know  that  sneering  little  devil  of  a  secre- 
tary. It's  all  very  well  for  you.  You  can  forget  any- 
thing. I  can't.  Isn't  it  bad  enough  for  me  to  know 
we  have  next  to  nothing  to  live  on  ?" 

Gower  rumbled  on  in  a  fit  of  discontentment,  but 
Elinor's  ears  were  used  to  his  upbraidings,  and  she 
heeded  not.  The  name  of  Drake  stirred  up  memories 
of  the  time  when  she  first  saw  Gower,  of  the  day  on 
wrhich  she  determined  to  adopt  him. 

"  Was  this  the  child  whose  dear  love  I  won  ?  Has 
that  child  changed  and  become  this  man?"  These 
questions  some  strange  voice  within  her  kept  repeating. 


42  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

"  Diva !  How  much  longer  are  you  going  to  stand 
there  ?  I  can't  get  on  with  anyone  in  the  room.  Please 
leave  me  alone,"  said  Gower,  going  to  his  table  and 
throwing  himself  on  his  chair. 

A  surge  of  profound  sorrow  almost  burst  her  heart. 
The  years  of  self-denial  and  absolute  unselfishness 
seemed  to  have  been  spent  for  nothing.  She  turned 
away  her  head,  afraid  he  would  see  her  tears.  She 
stifled  a  moan,  and  gathered  enough  strength  to  carry 
herself  from  the  room.  She  closed  the  door  and  stood 
in  the  passage,  but  she  felt  che  dared  not  go  in  to 
Lexham.  On  the  foot  of  the  staircase  she  sank,  and 
the  darkness  vibrated  from  her  stifled  sobbings.  The 
darkness  holds  the  past ;  and  though  her  hands  covered 
her  tear-wet  face,  a  cruel  light  in  her  palms  revealed 
all  that  her  love  for  the  boy  had  hidden  for  so  many 
years  and  through  so  many  misfortunes.  She  had  been 
blind  to  his  extreme  selfishness.  On  that  very  day 
when  she  had  counted  out  forty  dollars,  the  amount 
due  for  rent,  and  had  lightly  told  him  that  after  the 
rent  was  paid  they  had  only  three  or  four  dollars  left, 
he  complained  because  she  could  not  spare  him  more 
than  two  dollars  to  spend  at  his  club.  He  had  been 
away  for  ten  hours,  without  a  thought  of  what  food 
or  comfort  she  had,  no  thought  of  how  she  would  pay 
for  the  coming  week's  necessaries.  The  little  money 
she  earned  barely  made  both  ends  meet.  Good  rooms 
in  a  decent  neighbourhood  they  were  bound  to  have,  and 
the  payment  of  forty  dollars  a  month  often  deprived 
her  of  many  a  much-needed  article  of  dress  and  food. 
He  had  four  pupils  from  whom  he  received  twelve 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  43 

dollars  per  week,  but  never  a  penny  did  he  contribute 
to  the  general  expense. 

Elinor  suddenly  realised  she  had  ceased  crying,  and 
that  she  was  looking  into  the  darkness.  An  acute  pain 
in  the  throat  recalled  to  her  the  purpose  for  which  she 
had  left  Lexham.  She  thought  her  heart  was  numb 
and  cold.  Though  grief  had  been  the  meed  of  her 
early  years,  years  of  bitter  disappointment  and  cruel 
adversity,  she  had  never  known  any  calamity  leave  so 
poignant  a  sense  of  desolation  and  hopelessness.  The 
words  Lexham  had  spoken  when  he  referred  to  his 
repeated  failures  echoed  in  her  ears.  Failure!  Fail- 
ure !  The  darkness  seemed  to  have  a  thousand  muffled 
tongues  which  whispered  the  dreadful  word  till  a  hor- 
rible roaring  took  possession  of  her  ears,  and  she 
thought  they  would  surely  burst,  as  the  noise  seemed  to 
penetrate  her  aching  brain. 

She  arose,  opened  the  door  of  her  room,  and  walked 
into  darkness.  She  strained  her  startled  eyes.  She 
heard  the  clock  ticking. 

"  Gilbert !"   she  softly  called,  but  no  reply  came. 

She  moved  to  the  centre  of  the  room,  and  realised 
that  both  the  lamp  and  the  fire  had  died  out.  In 
searching  for  the  matches  her  hand  struck  Lexham's 
head.  A  strange  awe  took  possession  of  her  soul.  She 
felt  in  the  darkness  and  passed  her  hand  over  his  face. 
Quickly  she  struck  a  match  and  tried  to  light  the  lamp, 
the  wick  of  which  was  hard  and  dry.  Again  she  struck 
a  match,  but  could  find  only  the  lamp  of  her  chafing- 
dish,  which  she  lighted  and  placed  on  the  little  table 
near  Lexham's  chair. 

"  .What  a  strange  position !"   she  half -muttered,  and 


44  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

was  aware  of  an  extraordinary  calm  which  took  pos- 
session of  her.  She  bowed  her  head  and  placed  her 
ear  near  his  mouth,  but  failed  to  detect  any  breathing. 
In  that  stooping  position  she  remained,  and  her  eyes 
wandered  to  an  abrasion  on  the  knuckles  of  his  right 
hand.  She  remembered  the  fight  Gower  had  spoken 
of.  Had  Lexham  been  hurt  ?  she  wondered.  He  was 
cold  and  his  face  was  deathly  pale. 

She  picked  up  an  old  paper,  which  she  pushed  into 
the  grate,  and  on  it  threw  a  bundle  of  sticks.  This 
she  quickly  lighted ;  and  heaped  over  the  fast  igniting 
wood  shovelfuls  of  coal. 

In  another  moment  she  was  in  Gower's  room. 

"  Cyril !  Come !  Something  has  happened  to  Lex- 
ham,"  she  said  in  a  tone  of  command,  without  ex- 
citement. 

"  Confound  it !  Isn't  he  gone  ?"  Gower  asked,  show- 
ing much  temper  and  irritability. 

"  No!  He  has  fainted.  What  is  to  be  done?"  and 
Elinor  going  to  the  door  shook  her  head  in  the  direction 
of  her  room.  "  Come !" 

"  I  can't  come, — I  hate  sick  people.  You  know  I 
am  useless  when  anything  is  the  matter.  Can't  I  be 
left  alone?  You  know  I'm  all  upset  to-night.  You 
don't  need  me.  You  know  what  to  do  for  him." 
He  whined  all  this  in  a  sing-song  way,  and  threw  him- 
self on  the  sofa. 

Elinor  closed  the  door  and  soon  regained  Lexham's 
side. 

To  her  surprise  she  found  him  breathing  gently. 
Beads  of  sweat  were  on  his  brow.  The  pained  ex- 
pression of  his  face  was  gone. 


MADAME   BOHEMIA  45 

"  He  sleeps,"  she  muttered,  as  she  wiped  the  per- 
spiration from  his  brow. 

A  sense  of  sweet  relief  gently  thrilled  through  her 
whole  being.  She  knew  sleep  would  not  come  to  her, 
and  that  to  waken  him  would  be  as  cruel  as  to  send 
him  out  into  the  storm. 


CHAPTER    III 

ELINOR  sat  near  Lexham's  side  till  he  awakened. 
It  was  then  near  eight  o'clock.  She  helped  him  to 
rise,  but  he  was  too  weak  to  walk,  so  she  assisted  him 
to  a  sofa  and  arranged  some  cushions  for  his  head. 

"  I  think  I  am  in  for  a  serious  illness,"  he  said ;  "  if 
I  am  not  soon  strong  enough  to  leave  the  house, 
please  send  a  message  to  Dr.  Brydone,  St.  Luke's 
Hospital." 

"  Are  you  in  pain  ?"  she  asked. 

"  My  head  aches.  I  have  a  fever.  But  it  will  soon 
pass,"  said  Lexham,  with  a  faint  smile.  "  What  is 
the  time?  Have  I  been  long  asleep?" 

The  room  was  still  dark,  the  only  light  being  the 
glow  from  the  fire,  which  she  had  kept  brightly  burn- 
ing. * 

"  It  is  morning.     Do  you  want  anything, — a  drink  ?" 

"  Morning !  What,  have  I  been "  He  looked 

.at  her,  and  for  a  moment  seemed  bewildered.  "  You 
have  not  been  to  bed." 

She  went  to  the  table  for  some  water;  when  she 
returned  to  him,  his  face  was  buried  in  the  cushions 
and  his  whole  body  shook  with  convulsive  sobs.  He 
had  vaguely  caught  the  meaning  of  it  all.  He  half 
understood  why  he  was  there,  in  her  room,  and  she 
had  not  been  to  bed. 

The  fever  rapidly  increased,  and  at  noon  Elinor  sent 
for  Dr.  Brydone. 

It  was  late  in  the  evening  before  the  doctor  came, 
46 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  47 

He  said  he  feared  a  bad  attack  of  pneumonia.  In  a 
little  room  at  the  top  of  the  house  Lexham  was  put  to 
bed,  for  Elinor  pleaded  she  would  nurse  him,  and 
finally  the  doctor  had  to  give  his  consent. 

Dr.  Brydone  was  a  good  friend  of  Lexham's,  and  he 
relieved  her  mind  of  all  anxiety  about  medical  attend- 
ance. 

She  had  shouldered  the  responsibility  before  she 
realised  how  great  it  would  be — even  at  the  best. 
After  the  doctor  left  the  house  and  Elinor  was  alone, 
she  found  herself  beset  by  a  thousand  difficulties,  but 
her  courage  was  invincible,  and  her  heart  beat  fast  at 
the  thought  of  nursing  him  back  to  health.  She  felt 
she  had  a  dear  duty  to  perform,  and  one  she  would  not 
let  the  hospital  snatch  from  her,  nor  should  death  carry 
off  the  prize  if  she  could  help  it. 

When  she  told  Gower  of  Lexham's  illness  and  that 
the  patient  was  to  remain  under  her  charge,  he  said  in 
a  cold  tone  how  sorry  he  was,  but  added  how  foolish 
she  must  be  to  undertake  so  much  when  hospitals  were 
numerous. 

A  good  little  Irish  servant  assisted  Elinor  and  did 
all  she  could  to  lighten  her  duties.  Mrs.  Pollock,  too, 
was  kind. 

Four  anxious  weeks  passed  before  the  doctor  told 
her  that  Lexham  would  recover.  Many  times  in  de- 
lirium he  incoherently  spoke  of  events  which  she  tried 
to  connect  with  his  life  during  the  time  he  had  been 
without  work.  The  more  she  saw  of  his  suffering 
the  greater  became  her  determination  to  claim  him  and 
make  his  future  bright.  Night  after  night  she  tried 
to  plan  how  she  could  bear  the  expense  of  another 


48  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

room,  in  addition  to  the  cost  of  those  she  had  already 
much  difficulty  in  keeping. 

She  had  incurred  many  new  debts  and  saw  no  way 
of  paying  them  till  the  spring.  For  several  years  she 
had  given  readings,  for  which  she  was  well  paid  by 
agents  who  engaged  lecturers,  singers,  and  readers  for 
associations  and  lyceums.  Her  last  tour  had  not  been 
quite  so  successful  as  her  agents  had  expected.  She 
gave  twenty  readings  in  and  about  Chicago,  which 
brought  in  the  sum  of  four  hundred  dollars,  but  after 
she  had  paid  her  railway  fares  and  other  expenses,  the 
sum  had  dwindled  down  to  less  than  three  hundred. 
That  was  in  the  November  before  she  undertook  to 
care  for  Lexham.  WRen  the  first  of  February  came, 
she  had  no  money  to  give  to  Mrs.  Pollock,  and  her 
stock  of  jewelry  was  nearly  all  pawned. 

Near  the  end  of  February  matters  looked  very  black 
for  Elinor,  but  desperation  brought  an  old  friend,  who 
in  a  small  measure  relieved  her  anxieties. 

One  evening  this  old  friend,  a  Miss  Dalston,  called 
to  ask  her  to  give  a  reading  at  the  house  of  a  wealthy 
Bostonian.  Jane  Dalston  had  often  helped  Elinor  when 
the  latter  little  knew  her  friend  guessed  how  much  she 
was  in  need. 

"  Elinor,  you  are  not  looking  well.  You  are  tired. 
I  do  believe  you're  getting  thin,"  said  Miss  Dalston, 
after  she  had  got  Elinor's  promise  to  go  to  Boston  and 
give  the  reading. 

"  I  have  been  much  worried  of  late,  Jane.  It  has 
been  a  hard  winter,"  she  half-explained,  afraid  that 
the  observant  Miss  Dalston  would  read  her  heart. 

"  I've  a  good  mind  to  tell  Mrs.  Sefton  to  keep  you 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  49 

for  a  few  days  in  Boston.  The  change  would  do  you 
a  lot  of  good.  She  has  a  beautiful  house  near  Brook- 
line,  and  after  the  party  you  would  enjoy  perfect  rest. 
I'm  mighty  glad  Mrs.  Sefton  wrote  to  me  about  her 
musicale.  I  thought  of  you,  and  instantly  wrote  the 
dear  old  thing.  Elinor,  now  much  will  you  ask?  Or 
should  I  name  the  terms?  Yes,  I'll  name  the  terms. 
You're  such  a  'fool  at  that  sort  of  thing.  If  you  knew 
how  wealthy  Mrs.  Sefton  is  I  do  believe  you'd  want  to 
read  for  nothing."  ' 

Miss  Dalston  rattled  on  and  chuckled.  She  was 
happy  only  when  doing  some  good  service  for  Elinor — 
and  at  the  same  time  giving  her  a  bit  of  her  mind. 
She  was  about  fifty-five  years  of  age,  and  never 
dreamed  that  Elinor  was  a  day  older  than  she  was 
when  Jane  first  heard  her  sing  Juliette,  and  afterwards 
met  her  at  a  supper-party  given  to  the  singer  by  some 
members  of  the  first  musical  society  of  New  York. 

"  Well,  that  is  settled.  For  goodness'  sake  don't 
look  so  glum!  I'll  look  after  Cyril,  the  lazy  genius. 
It  will  be  good  for  him  to  learn  to  miss  you.  I  do 
believe  you  spoil  him.  Come,  don't  talk  any  more. 
I  must  go.  I  suppose  you  would  forget  Jane  Dalston 

if  she  didn't  root  you  out  of  your Elinor,  you  do 

look  ill !  I  must  send  you  a  case  of  that  old  port.  No, 
I'll  not,  you'll  give  it  to  Cyril,  and  it  is  certainly  not 
port  he  needs.  Bless  you,  my  beautiful.  Good-bye. 
Take  pity  on  an  old  spinster  and  look  her  up  when  you 
have  nothing  better  to  do.  Don't  forget.  It's  all  set- 
tled. Good-bye." 

Jane  was  gone  and  Elinor  full  of  tears.  Gower 
came  in  to  ask  who  the  caller  was.  .When  he  heard 

4 


50  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

that  Miss  Dalston  had  undertaken  to  arrange  the  terms 
for  the  prospective  reading,  he  resolved  to  order  some 
clothes  for  the  spring. 

"  How  is  Lexham  ?  Any  better  ?"  asked  Grower. 
He  had  seldom  troubled  about  the  man  who  had  been 
fighting  for  life  near  the  threshold  of  death. 

"  The  doctor  says  all  danger  is  past,  but  it  will  be  a 
long  convalescence  before  he  is  strong  enough  to  go 
out.  He  often  asks  about  you." 

"  I'm  glad  he  is  all  right,"  Gower  said,  in  a  way 
which  implied  he  was  not  then  thinking  of  Lexham. 

"  I  haven't  had  a  decent  cigar  this  week.  I  sup- 
pose your  purse  is  empty,  eh,  Diva?"  The  remark 
and  the  question  were  spoken  in  a  hopeless  tone. 

"  I'm  sorry,  Cyril,  but  I  don't  even  know  where  I 
shall  get  the  money  from  to  take  me  to  Boston,"  she 
said.  "  But  never  mind,  dear,  don't  you  trouble  about 
it;  I'll  manage  to  find  it." 

"All  right.  It  would  be  a  pity  to  miss  such  a  good 
thing  just  for  the  want  of  a  few  dollars  to  buy  a  rail- 
way ticket.  Good-night.  I  shall  walk  over  to  the 
Players.  I  owe  a  good  bit,  but  a  few  good  cigars  will 
not  add  much  to  the  bill,"  said  Grower.  And  he  left 
her  to  wonder  how  she  would  get  money  to  pay  her 
expenses  to  Boston,  and  at  the  same  time  leave  with 
Mrs.  Pollock  enough  to  buy  food  for  Cyril  and  Lexham 
during  her  absence. 

She  decided  to  pawn  her  watch,  for  she  would  need 
the  few  articles  of  jewelry  she  had  left,  which  were 
some  rings,  a  bracelet,  and  a  necklace.  Once  before 
she  had  to  raise  money  on  her  watch,  and  to  her  sur- 
prise the  pawnbroker  lent  her  twenty-five  dollars. 


MADAME   BOHEMIA  51 

As  she  sat  planning  her  trip  to  Boston,  it  occurred 
to  her  that  Gower  had  not  once  asked  about  Lexham's 
affairs  during  his  illness.  She  had  not  told  him  she 
was  for  the  time  being  responsible,  and  paid  for  every- 
thing but  the  doctor's  attendance  and  the  rent  of  the 
patient's  room. 

Still,  she  readily  found  excuses  for  Grower's  lack  of 
thought  and  indifference.  When  some  unkind  act  of 
his  hurt  her  to  the  quick  she  called  to  mind  some  tender 
memory  to  alleviate  the  pain.  For  every  harsh*  word 
and  selfish  motive  the  storehouse  of  her  memory  yielded 
dear  incidents  which  were  as  sweet  as  the  kisses  the 
child's  lips  had  been  ever  ready  to  give.  But  Elinor 
seemed  to  think  she  never  before  saw  in  him  so  many 
faults,  and  she  continued  for  many  minutes  to  worMer 
and  question  herself  why  she  had  of  late  been  prone 
to  criticise  his  words  and  actions.  It  grieved  her  to 
think  she  should  notice  such  trivialities.  It  did  not 
occur  to  her  that  one  seldom  appreciates  the  virtues 
or  observes  the  faults  of  a  person  or  object  till  the 
contrast  or  antithesis  appears. 

Since  Lexham  had  passed  the  dangerous  stage  of 
his  illness,  she  had  moments  of  reflection  when  her 
mind  would  become  full  of  the  memories  of  the  room 
in  which  she  had  witnessed  his  struggle  with  disease. 
The  man's  placidity  and  patience  in  the  most  racking 
stages  of  his  ailment;  his  thoughtfulness  and  constant 
inquiry  about  her;  the  gentle  way  he  would  prevail 
on  her  to  rest ;  his  unuttered  heartfelt  thanks  and  looks 
of  gratitude  when  he  was  far  too  weak  to  speak,  went 
straight  to  her  heart  and  gave  her  sweet  recompense 
for  all  her  care. 


52  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

On  the  day  she  left  for  Boston  Lexham  was  much 
improved  and  able  to  sit  up  in  his  bed.  She  spent  an 
hour  with  him,  and  was  surprised  to  find  he  was  eager 
to  get  to  work;  that  his  views  of  the  future  were 
entirely  changed.  In  gaining  new  strength  he  seemed 
to  acquire  what  he  before  dared  not  dream  of,  he  was 
full  of  inclination  to  write.  He  told  Elinor  as  she 
sat  by  his  bedside  of  the  plot  of  a  play  which  had 
for  a  long  time  possessed  his  mind.  He  had  not 
written  down  a  single  scene,  yet  to  Elinor  he  seemed 
to  be  reciting  whole  scenes  which  were  not  only  dra- 
matic but  sequential.  When  he  had  finished  telling 
his  scenario,  Elinor  expressed  her  wonder  that  he  had 
not  written  the  play. 

*  I  was  often  tempted  to  write  it  and  get  it  pro- 
duced, but  though  I  thought  that  my  material  was 
good  and  had  some  of  the  essential  elements  of  drama, 
my  mind  would  contract  the  moment  I  put  my  pen  to 
paper.  I  have  been  passing  through  a  peculiar  mental 
phase.  My  brain  absorbed  and  carried  on  all  the  pro- 
cesses necessary  to  the  development  of  ideas,  but  it 
would  not  radiate  when  the  subject  was  ripe.  This  ill- 
ness has  perhaps  saved  me  from  mental  afflictions  from 
which  many  suffer.  I  have  heard  men  say,  '  Oh,  if 
I  could  but  produce  what  I  think!'  One  friend  of 
mine  used  to  have  terrible  fits  of  despondency  and 
would  sometimes  say,  *  I  shall  go  mad  if  I  don't  find 
someone  to  listen  to  me,  for  I  can't  write  a  sentence.' ' 

Elinor  felt  that  Lexham  was  speaking  of  his  own 
bitter  experience,  and  she  was  perhaps  right,  for  after 
a  pause  he  added,  "  One  should  not  live  too  long 
alone." 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  53 

Gower  knocked  on  the  door,  and  for  the  first  time 
since  Lexham's  illness  entered  the  room.  Elinor  was 
perplexed  and  felt  that  he  had  no  right  to  be  there. 
She  could  not  understand  why  such  a  feeling  should 
possess  her,  though  it  vexed  her  that  his  coming  un- 
asked caused  her  to  think  of  him  in  the  light  of  an 
intruder. 

"  How  are  you,  Lexham  ?  Better,  eh  ?  I  suppose 
you'll  be  glad  to  get  out,"  said  Gower,  standing  as 
far  from  the  bed  as  the  wall  permitted. 

"  I'm  all  right,  thank  you,"  Lexham  replied,  and 
smiled  at  Gower's  evident  discomfort.  "  Won't  you 
sit  down  for  a  few  moments?" 

"  No,  thanks.  Come,  Diva,  if  you  want  to  catch 
that  train.  Good-bye,  Lexham,"  he  stammered,  and 
left  the  room. 

She  soon  followed,  but  had  to  stop  for  a  minute  or 
two  on  the  staircase  to  wipe  away  some  rebellious 
tears.  Mrs.  Pollock  promised  to  be  careful  of  the 
patient  and  each  day  write  a  line  about  his  convales- 
cence. Elinor  left  twenty  dollars  with  the  landlady 
and  instructions  that  Lexham  should  not  want  for 
anything.  The  pawnbroker  had  lent  on  the  watch  the 
sum  Elinor  had  asked,  thirty-five  dollars.  She  gave 
Gower  five  and  kept  the  remaining  ten  for  a  single 
ticket  and  for  the  incidental  expenses  of  the  trip. 

"  Cyril,  do  go  up  to  Lexham  when  you  can  spare  the 
time,"  she  said,  when  they  reached  the  station. 

"Are  you  sure  he  is  quite  better?"  Gower  asked, 
in  a  tone  which  struck  her  as  being  unsympathetic  and 
hard. 

"  No.     Don't  go.     It  will  be  perhaps  better  for  him 


54  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

not  to  talk  or  see  anyone,"  she  replied.  She  felt  pained, 
though,  as  he  stooped  to  kiss  her,  she  succeeded  in 
hiding  the  grieved  expression  of  her  face. 

"  Good-bye,"  he  said  as  his  lips  touched  her  cheek. 

"  Good-bye,  Cyril.  Do  write,  and  be  sure  to  ask 
Mrs.  Pollack  how  Gilbert  is  getting  on,  and  let  me 
know  all  the  news." 

"All  right.     Good-bye." 

He  did  not  wait  till  the  train  left  the  station. 

Elinor's  journey  to  Boston  soon  came  to  an  end. 
She  was  there  before  she  realised  the  terminus  was 
reached.  Her  mind  had  been  too  full  of  the  events 
which  had  happened  since  the  night  Gower  brought 
Lexham  to  her  for  her  to  notice  her  surroundings. 
A  sense  of  relief  swept  all  harassing  things  out  of  her 
mind.  A  new  prospect  seemed  to  extend  before  her. 
The  future  was  bright  with  shining  plans  of  great  sig- 
nificance. Lexham  wanted  to  work,  to  write,  and  had 
already  the  inclination  to  finish  a  play.  She  felt  a 
great  strength  within  her  heart,  and  knew  her  com- 
panionship would  be  the  medium  of  spurring  him  to 
great  things.  Great  things  they  were  to  be.  No  or- 
dinary stuff  just  written  to  catch  the  eye  of  a  publisher 
or  theatre  manager.  Money  would  not  be  the  object 
of  their  productions.  Good  honest  work  just  high 
enough  above  the  public's  head  for  them  to  reach  up 
to.  No  more  days  of  privation  and  want  of  food. 
No  more  nights  of  despair  and  want  of  lodging.  No 
more  dreadful  scenes  of  misery,  destitution,  and  ill- 
ness, but  a  quiet,  tranquil  future  of  literary  labour 
without  the  anxieties  of  those  who  must  feed  the  press 
and  at  the  best  rise  for  a  space  on  the  wave  of  popu- 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  55 

larity,  tr;en  sink  to  the  trough  of  the  wave,  to  remain 
forgotten  and  dejected. 

She  had  met  many  young  men  in  whom  she  had  de- 
tected talent, — friends  of  Gower's,  men  without  posi- 
tion or  reputation  who  worked  only  when  necessity 
compelled  them.  She  had  a  wonderful  knack  of  get- 
ting an  indolent  fellow  to  interest  himself  in  work 
he  had  slighted  through  want  of  purpose  and  encour- 
agement. Her  discernment  was  peculiar  in  selecting 
a  young  man's  vocation.  She  seldom  failed  in  point- 
ing to  the  right  path  for  the  right  man,  and  once  she 
had  determined  on  the  branch  of  art  for  which  her 
subject  was  fitted  her  energy  was  untiring,  and  her 
interest  never  flagged  till  a  substantial  result  proved 
the  accuracy  of  her  determination  and  crowned  her 
protege's  production  with  success. 

Gower  had  been  her  only  failure. 


CHAPTER   IV 

ELINOR'S  circle  of  friends  was  not  a  large  one.  In 
the  days  when  she  was  Signora  Valenza,  the  famous 
soprano,  and  toured  through  America,  she  met  many 
lovers  of  music  who  courted  the  singer's  acquaintance 
but  not  the  woman's  friendship.  But  there  were  some 
good  people  who  succeeded  in  really  knowing  the 
woman  apart  from  the  singer.  Those  who  then  won 
her  love  and  respect  continued  to  correspond  with  her 
long  after  she  returned  to  Europe,  where  the  tragedy, 
which  began  when  she  married,  closed  its  first  act  on 
the  stage  of  a  great  opera-house.  It  was  on  the  occa- 
sion of  her  reappearance  in  a  beautiful  town  on  the 
Riviera.  Before  admiring  thousands  she  was  to  create 
a  new  role.  Rounds  and  rounds  of  applause  greeted 
her,  but  she  did  not  seem  to  acknowledge  the  hearty 
welcome;  she  swayed  and  seemed  to  be  in  great  dis- 
tress. The  conductor  had  twice  to  go  back.  She 
seemed  to  try  to  sing,  but  she  could  not  produce  a  note. 
Her  voice  was  gone.  Many  in  the  house  had  not  be- 
fore heard  her.  A  storm  of  hisses  from  the  strangers 
was  met  by  cheers  from  those  who  knew  her  and  saw 
that  something  terrible  had  happened.  She  fell,  and 
the  curtain  dropped.  An  announcement  was  made. 
She  was  seriously  ill  and  would  not  appear  again  that 
season. 

The  gossips  circulated  libellous  stories  of  the  cause 
of  her  loss  of  voice.  Some  said  she  was  drunk ;  others 
said  she  was  not  in  a  fit  condition  to  appear  in  public ; 
56 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  57 

but  one  ugly  story  was  told  and  discussed  which  had 
fact  to  support  its  many  different  versions.  A  man 
was  found  at  her  bedroom  door  shot  through  the  heart. 
This  was  the  fact.  One  version  had  it  that  the  dead 
man  was  her  lover,  killed  by  her  husband,  and  though 
this  allegation  was  by  many  half-believed,  no  charge 
was  brought  against  her  husband.  A  verdict  of  sui- 
cide was  returned,  but  that  did  not  stop  the  head- 
wagging  crowd  nor  satisfy  the  many.  It  was  known 
the  dead  man  had  lost  large  sums  of  money  at  the 
gaming-tables,  and  that  the  suicide  was  often  seen  with 
her  husband,  but  why  he  shot  himself  at  her  bedroom 
door  was  a  mystery  never  cleared. 

Only  two  persons  knew  why  the  dead  man  chose 
that  spot  for  the  self-inflicted  deed.  One  was  Elinor's 
husband,  who  two  years  after  that  event  died  in  an 
inebriates'  asylum.  The  other  was  Drake,  Drake  who 
had  been  the  secretary  and  acting-manager,  Drake  who 
had  to  take  the  boy  Gower  out  of  reach  of  Elinor's 
husband's  ear-cuffing  hand. 

After  a  long  illness  she  took  her  adopted  son  to 
Dresden.  Her  husband  deserted  her,  and  thereby 
proved  he  was  capable  of  one  generous  act  towards 
the  woman  he  had  cruelly  treated  for  so  long.  She 
never  saw  him  after  he  left  the  Riviera.  Drake  re- 
turned to  America,  and  though  he  was  for  some  time 
after  his  arrival  often  tempted  to  give  away  the  true 
version  of  an  affair  which  interested  so  many  of  Eli- 
nor's American  admirers,  he  steadily  refused  one  jot 
of  information.  He  pleaded  ignorance,  and  to  his 
dearest  friends  said  he  knew  no  more  of  the  matter 
than  had  been  published. 


58  MADAME   BOHEMIA 

Elinor  had  been  from  her  first  appearance  an  un- 
usually successful  singer.  Her  youth  (she  was  nine- 
teen when  she  made  her  debut),  beauty,  and  glorious 
voice  conquered  all.  Though  her  dissolute  husband 
spent  fully  half  of  all  she  earned,  Drake  from  the  be- 
ginning of  her  American  tour  was  clever  enough  to 
urge  her  to  send  each  week  a  share  of  her  salary  to 
a  London  bank.  When  Elinor  reached  Dresden  she 
decided  to  reside  there  for  several  months  and  send 
Gower  to  a  famous  master  of  the  piano,  but  after 
three  months  the  youth  lost  interest,  complained  of 
headaches,  and  would  not  study. 

Gower  was  nine  years  of  age  when  Elinor  adopted 
him.  She  had  then  been  on  the  operatic  stage  about 
two  years.  A  long  and  arduous  season  in  Italy  had 
been  followed  by  several  attacks  of  nervous  prostra- 
tion. She  rested  with  some  relatives  who  lived  near 
a  pretty  little  village  in  Kent.  One  night  to  favour  the 
vicar  she  attended  a  concert  given  by  the  members  of 
the  church  choir.  At  that  concert  sh'e  first  saw  and 
heard  the  young  pianist  Cyril  Gower,  who  was  then 
the  village  prodigy. 

A  child  of  poor  parents  in  an  out-of-the-way  place 
has  very  little  chance  of  reaching  the  world  of  art. 

Elinor  was  surprised  and  delighted.  The  boy 
played  two  Chopin  studies  in  a  way  which  proved 
he  possessed  great  talent.  Many  evenings  he  spent  at 
the  house  where  Elinor  was  staying,  and  she  soon 
found  the  boy  lovable  and  interesting.  Her  heart  was 
desolate,  for  she  was  then  beginning  to  understand 
how  little  happiness  for  her  there  would  be  in  married 
life.  Her  husband  gambled  away  her  money  and  drank 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  59 

to  excess.  During  the  season  in  Italy  he  had  suffered 
from  several  attacks  of  delirium  tremens,  and  on  one 
occasion  threatened  to  strike  her.  She  bravely  bore 
it  all,  and  found  relief  and  consolation  in  singing  and 
success.  Still,  she  knew  her  marriage  had  been  a 
most  immoral  one,  and  she  felt  the  need  of  someone 
near  to  help  her  bear  an  aching  heart.  Her  husband 
was  a  baronet,  and  Elinor's  parents  thought  it  would 
be  such  a  good  match,  so  they  gave  away  their  daughter 
to  one  whose  private  life  was  extremely  wicked  and 
despicable.  She  was  a  mere  child,  a  quiet  country 
girl  of  eighteen  years  of  age,  when  she  became  a  wife, 
and  at  twenty-one  she  was  disgusted  and  feared  her 
detestable  husband. 

Two  happy  months  were  spent  in  Kent.  Her  hus- 
band was  losing  her  money  at  gaming-tables  in  the 
South  of  France.  The  boy  Gower  had  completely 
won  her  affection,  and  she  saw  him  every  day.  She 
had  learned  from  the  vicar  that  Cyril  was  the  fifth 
child  of  a  young  family  of  ten.  The  organist  had  taken 
an  interest  in  the  boy  and  gave  him  free  instruction. 

One  morning  she  heard  from  her  manager  that  he 
had  signed  contracts  for  an  American  tour,  and  that 
her  husband  desired  him  to  book  several  concerts  to 
be  given  in  London  before  her  departure.  Her  heart 
sank,  and  her  courage,  which  had  formerly  carried 
her  through  many  awful  scenes,  seemed  to  desert  her. 
Cyril  came  in  while  she  was  in  her  fit  of  despair.  She 
threw  her  arms  about  the  boy  and  wept  long  and 
bitterly  over  him.  Never  had  such  a  surge  of  feeling 
burst  from  her.  The  boy  looked  up  at  her  face  and 
murmured  some  words  of  affection.  .When  she  told 


60  MADAME    BOHEMIA1 

him  she  would  soon  have  to  leave  him  and  go  to  far- 
off  America,  he  asked  her  to  take  him  with  her,  not 
to  leave  him  at  home  with  all  his  brothers  and  sisters, 
for  whom  his  parents  could  scarcely  find  sufficient 
food  and  clothing. 

That  night  Elinor  called  on  Cyril's  father  and 
mother.  She  asked  them  to  let  her  have  Cyril  for 
good  and  all.  What  arrangements  she  made  are -not 
known,  but  Cyril  left  Kent  with  Elinor  when  she  went 
to  London  to  fulfil  her  concert  engagements. 


CHAPTER   V 

"  You  must  be  very  tired  after  your  journey,"  said 
Mrs.  Sefton,  taking  Elinor's  small  satchel. 

"  No,  not  very  tired.     I  did  not  really  notice  the , 
hours  pass,  though  I  have  often  found  them  very  tedi- 
ous." 

"  I  do  not  like  trains,  fof  though  forty  or  fifty 
people  one  has  never  met  before  may  be  in  the  same 
car,  one  imagines  the  railway  company  restricts  con- 
versation and  forbids  sleeping  in  their  comfortable 
chairs,"  Mrs.  Sefton  observed,  and  at  the  same  time 
prepared  a  cup  of  tea  for  Elinor,  who  had  sunk  into 
a  great  old  Chippendale  arm-chair  before  the  blazing 
logs. 

What  a  sense  of  absolute  freedom!  How  sweetly 
fell  the  tranquillity  of  the  room  and  its  quiet  refine- 
ment upon  her! 

Mrs.  Sefton  had  for  thirty  years  been  a  widow. 
Her  husband  left  her  a  large  income,  and  her  nieces 
had  married  wealthy  men.  Without  a  child  of  her 
own,  she  had  given  love  and  generosity  to  her  sister's 
children,  but  had  never  to  spend  much  of  her  own 
fortune  on  anyone  but  herself.  She  lived  usually  alone, 
in  the  large  house  in  which  Elinor  was  to  give  the 
reading.  Sometimes  a  niece  or  grandniece  would  stay 
for  a  few  days,  but  rarely  for  a  week  or  two.  Mrs. 
Sefton  was  liked  but  not  loved  by  many  of  her  rela- 
tions, but  she  did  not  much  mind  her  lonely  state,  for 
she  had  a  happy  disposition  and  found  many  things 
to  occupy  her  mind. 

61 


62  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

One  was  the  piano.  She  was  sixty-five  years  of  age 
and  practised  four  hours  each  day.  She  had  not  had 
one  lesson  from  a  teacher  since  her  girlhood.  But 
the  piano  was  not  her  only  accomplishment.  She 
began  to  keep  a  diary  on  the  day  of  her  marriage  and 
had  not  missed  writing  down  the  events  of  each  day. 
Her  life  had  been  full  of  interest,  and  the  many 
changes  of  art,  science,  and  society  which  came  before 
her  were  faithfully  set  down  in  her  Doomsday  Book. 

Elinor  was  delighted  to  find  Mrs.  Sefton  even  more 
entertaining  than  Miss  Dalston  had  described.  The 
old  lady  was  an  expert  hostess  and  appreciated  Elinor's 
silence. 

A  tall  woman  entered  the  room.  She  was  twenty- 
six  years  of  age  and  possessed  the  graceful  form  of 
a  girl  of  eighteen.  Her  face  could  not  have  been 
called  handsome.  It  was  far  too  expressive.  The 
brow,  eyes,  nose,  and  mouth  seemed  to  be  excellent 
examples  of  different  types  of  beauty.  Her  hair  was 
dark  red  flecked  with  a  peculiar  gold,  which  in  a  strong 
light  glistened  and  made  darker  the  red. 

"What  hair!"  Elinor  could  not  help  half-mutter- 
ing to  herself.  "  It  is  glorious !" 

"  Oh,  Gertrude,  Mrs.  Kembleton  is  here.  Let  me 
introduce  you,  dear.  My  niece,  Mrs.  Laird,"  said 
Mrs.  Sefton,  in  her  usual  fussy  way, — a  way  which 
placid  people  would  find  annoying,  but  it  was  due 
only  to  her  desire  to  please  and  make  those  around  her 
happy.  Mrs.  Sefton's  manners  were  those  of  her 
grandfather's  period. 

She  looked  like  a  portrait  by  Reynolds.  Her  dress 
and  a  peculiar  demureness  which  was  half-hesitancy, 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  63 

half -good-humour,  gave  her  a  sweet  distinction  which 
was  warm  and  charming.  Her  hair  was  not  powdered, 
but  a  black  cosmetic  covered  a  small  quantity  of  hair 
which  had  for  a  long  time  been  grey,  and  the  addi- 
tion of  some  plaits  and  switches  made  a  good  founda- 
tion for  her  cap.  It  did  not  seem  at  all  impossible  that 
Mrs.  Laird  should  some  day  look  very  like  her  aunt, 
for  their  features  were  from  the  same  mould,  and 
heredity  had  stamped  the  same  hall-mark  upon  both 
women. 

"  I  am  so  glad  to  meet  you,  Mrs.  Kembleton,"  said 
Mrs.  Laird,  as  she  took  Elinor's  hand,  "  I've  heard 
so  much  about  you  from  aunt  and  Miss  Dalston." 

"  I'm  afraid  Miss  Dalston  knows  only  my  virtues," 
Elinor  said,  and  she  felt  slightly  perturbed  as  she 
looked  at  Mrs.  Laird. 

"  Well,  it  is  refreshing  to  hear  of  one's  virtues,  for 
nowadays  it  seems  to  be  the  fashion  to  look  only  for 
one's  faults,"  Mrs.  Sefton  said,  and  she  laughed  at 
her  clever  remark. 

"  Yes,  aunt,  virtue  seems  to  be  a  fast-declining 
quality  and  not  conducive  to  the  modern  idea  of  hap- 
piness. Conversation  has  given  place  to  gossip  and 
notoriety  has  superseded  honour.  Goodness  only 
knows  what  will  happen  if  the  world  goes  on  wagging 
at  such  a  pace.  I  believe  a  social  revolution  must 
surely  come  and  wipe  out  the  present  effete  age.  Don't 
you  think  so,  Mrs.  Kembleton?"  asked  Mrs.  Laird, 
who  had  not  only  made  her  aunt  uncomfortable,  but 
caused  Elinor  to  wonder  why  a  simple  reference  to 
herself  should  be  followed  by  such  a  remarkable  out- 
burst. 


64  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

"  I  must  confess  I'm  quite  ignorant  of  the  matter. 
Perhaps  the  difference  in  our  surroundings  may  ac- 
count for  that;  still,  I  have  seen  little  to  make  me 
think  people  have  changed  for  the  worse,"  Elinor  ex- 
plained with  some  uncertainty  and  reluctance. 

"  Indeed !  you  surprise  me.  From  what  Jane  Dais- 
ton  said  I  thought  you  were  quite  a  Bohemian.  As 
for  me,  I  see  nothing  but  two  kinds  of  people.  One 
lot  eat,  sleep,  speak,  dress  according  to  the  book,  be- 
cause they  haven't  the  courage  to  rebel,  though  they 
sometimes  feel  how  foolish  and  inane  their  lives  are. 
To  the  other  lot  it  never  occurs  to  help  themselves, 
for  they  don't  know  any  better  and  have  become  part 
of  the  system,"  said  Mrs.  Laird,  in  a  tone  in  which 
contempt  and  discontent  were  evident. 

"  My  dear  Gertrude,  I  do  believe  you  have  been 
reading  Herbert  Spencer  or  John  Ruskin.  When  did 
this  attack  of  socialism  take  you  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Sefton, 
who  was  half-shocked,  but  could  not  hide  a  smile  as 
she  leaned  forward  as  if  expecting  her  niece  would 
resume  the  dissertation. 

"  When  ?  Oh,  since  my  children  have  been  old 
enough  to  question  me,"  Mrs.  Laird  replied. 

"  Well !  I  hope  you  don't  intend  to  instil  such 
teachings  into  your  innocents.  If  you  do,  I  shall  be 
really  afraid  to  have  them  here.  They're  bad  enough, 
goodness  knows,  and  such  natural  imps  would  be  be- 
yond all  taming  and  restraint.  Oh,  dear,  Gertrude,  it 
would  be  terrible !" 

"  I  shall  use  discretion.  Don't  be  afraid,  dear  aunt, 
your  grandnieces  and  nephews  will  do  you  more  hon- 
our than  their  parents.  They  shall  not  have  any  of 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  65 

the  prejudices  of  our  class  nor  be  little  slaves  of  con- 
vention," said  Mrs.  Laird  in  a  firm  voice. 

Elinor  began  to  admire  the  woman's  courage,  and 
what  she  at  first  thought  was  mere  raillery  carried 
now  all  the  force  of  earnest  determination.  But  there 
was  a  great  something  behind  all  she  said  which  Eli- 
nor could  not  quite  understand.  Why  a  woman  pos- 
sessing such  riches  should  cavil  at  her  sphere  and  hold 
society  in  contempt  was  a  mystery  to  Elinor.  There 
was  some  good  reason  prompting  Mrs.  Laird,  and 
Elinor  concluded  the  reason  was  a  domestic  one. 

"  Have  you  any  children,  Mrs.  Kembleton?" 

Elinor,  who  had  been  musing  during  a  pause,  started 
at  the  unexpected  question  and  looked  in  surprise  at 
Mrs.  Sefton. 

"  I  have  an  adopted  son.  But  he  is  twenty-three 
years  of  age,"  she  said,  and  the  old  proud  tone  asserted 
itself. 

"  So  old  ?  Pardon  me,  you  do  not  look  a  day  older 
than  I  do,"  Mrs.  Laird  remarked,  giving  Elinor  a 
glance  of  admiration. 

"  I  must  be  quite  ten  years  your  senior,"  she  ven- 
tured to  state,  though  she  felt  Mrs.  Laird  might  be 
nearer  thirty  than  twenty-five.  "  I  adopted  Mr. 
Gower  when  he  was  nine  years  old." 

"  Is  he  in  America?"  Mrs.  Sefton  asked  in  a  pecu- 
liar diffident  tone,  not  sure  of  the  propriety  of  such  a 
young  woman  having  so  old  an  adopted  son. 

"  Oh,  yes ;  he  is  in  New  York.  Didn't  Jane  Dalston 
tell  you  about  him  ?"  asked  Elinor,  with  some  surprise. 

"  No.  She  had  often  spoken  of  you,  but  never  men- 
tioned Mr.  Gower.  I'm  afraid  Jane  thinks  I'm  an 

5 


66  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

old  baby  and  should  know  only  half  of  what  she 
knows,"  said  Mrs.  Sefton,  who  for  a  moment  had  been 
embarrassed. 

"  Why  didn't  you  bring  him  with  you,  Mrs.  Kem- 
bleton  ?  I'm  sure  aunt  would  like  to  meet  him,  wouldn't 
you,  dear?"  Mrs.  Laird  was  evidently  interested  in 
Cyril. 

"  Yes,  Gertrude.  I  should  have  been  delighted  to 
see  him,"  said  Mrs.  Sefton,  who  had  recovered  her 
good-humour. 

"  It  is  not  too  late  to  telegraph  and  invite  him.  He 
could  easily  catch  the  midnight  train.  May  I  send  a 
message,  Mrs.  Kembleton?  I'm  sure  you  would  like 
to  have  him  with  you,"  said  Mrs.  Laird,  rising  and 
going  to  the  bell. 

"  Really,  you  embarrass  me.  I'm  afraid,  Mrs.  Sef- 
ton, Cyril  may  be  out  and  would  not  get  your  tele- 
gram till  long  after  the  train  should  leave  New  York. 
He  is  so  fond  of  his  club,"  Elinor  said,  wondering 
whether  Cyril  had  the  money  to  pay  his  fare. 

"  Then  let  us  send  two  telegrams.  One  will  surely 
catch  him,"  and  Mrs.  Laird  got  from  Elinor  the  ad- 
dresses and  wrote  out  the  invitations,  which  were  has- 
tily sent  to  the  nearest  telegraph-office. 

"  We  must  do  all  we  can  to  make  you  happy,  Mrs. 
Kembleton,  not  only  for  the  kindness  of  coming  to 
read  and  giving  us  the  pleasure  of  your  company,  but 
to  protect  ourselves  from  the  wrath  of  Jane,"  Mrs. 
Sefton  explained  in  a  laughing,  pleasant  way.  "  We 
all  fear  Jane,  don't  we,  Gertrude  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  we  do.  I  wish  I  had  some  of  her 
grit  and  confidence." 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  67 

Elinor  liked  Mrs.  Laird  for  her  last  remark. 

"What  is  Mr.  Gower?  An  artist?  I  don't  know 
why  I  should  say  an  artist,  but  one  has  sometimes  pre- 
conceived ideas  about  particular  names.  His  name  has 
an  artistic  ring  about  it,"  said  Mrs.  Laird,  as  she  leaned 
towards  Elinor  and  seemed  to  become  more  and  still 
more  interested. 

"  Mr.  Gower  is  a  musician,"  she  said  with  more 
pride. 

"A  musician!"  echoed  Mrs.  Sefton,  with  delight, 
and  clasping  her  hands.  "  Does  he  play  the  piano  ?" 

"  Yes ;  he  was  once  an  excellent  pianist,  but  of  late 
he  has  not  taken  much  interest  in  the  piano.  He  has 
begun  to  compose,  and  is  now  at  work  on  an  opera," 
said  Elinor. 

"  Oh,  how  delightful !  I  hope  he  will  come !  Do 
you  think  he  will?  Dare  we  ask  him  to  favour  us 
to-morrow  evening?  Gertrude,  dear,  did  you  ask  in 
the  message  for  a  reply?"  asked  Mrs.  Sefton,  who  was 
hugely  pleasing  Elinor  by  the  interest  she  was  show- 
ing. 

"  No,  I  didn't  ask  him  to  reply.  I  think  he  will 
come,"  said  Mrs.  Laird  in  a  tone  which  implied  more 
than  mere  suggestion.  But  the  tone  gave  Elinor  a 
slight  shock  of  irritation,  and  for  a  moment  she  hoped 
Gower  would  get  neither  message.  Mrs.  Laird's  man- 
ner was  peculiar.  There  was  something  ominous  in 
it  which  was  hardly  noticeable,  still  Elinor  was  aware 
of  it,  though  she  could  not  define  its  quality.  She  had 
a  vague  notion  that  Mrs.  Laird  was  a  woman  whose 
discontent  had  turned  to  cynicism.  Elinor  did  not  re- 
prove herself  for  not  liking  her.  Her  first  impressions 


68  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

had  so  often  proved  right  in  the  end  that  she  rarely 
doubted  their  accuracy.  She  had  never  found  them 
lead  her  astray  or  cause  her  to  do  wrong,  and  in  Mrs. 
Laird's  case  she  was  sure  that  the  secret  promptings 
were  meant  to  put  her  on  her  guard.  Elinor's  mind 
was  so  free  from  superficial  prejudices  that  her  natural 
senses  were  never  thwarted,  but  always  alert  and  quick 
to  act. 

Still,  as  the  evening  passed  she  found  many  delight- 
ful virtues  in  Mrs.  Laird.  One  which  seemed  particu- 
larly well  developed  was  thoughtfulness.  She  antici- 
pated so  much  her  aunt  and  Elinor  wished.  At  dinner 
Mrs.  Laird  was  voluble  and  humorous.  Her  vivid 
descriptions  of  Boston  society  leaders  and  their  fol- 
lowers were  the  cause  of  much  merriment,  for  the 
humourist  did  not  let  slander  or  vindictiveness  prompt 
the  telling  of  her  anecdotes. 

When  Mrs.  Laird  retired  her  aunt  was  loath  to  part 
with  Elinor,  who  was  at  ten  o'clock  feeling  the  effects 
of  the  journey  and  the  change. 

"  Before  you  go  to  bed  I  should  like  to  tell  you  why 
poor  Gertrude  is  sometimes  perverse.  She  has  much 
to  put  up  with,  for  her  husband  is  a  downright  scoun- 
drel. She  has  not  lived  with  him  for  over  a  year,  and 
though  she  has  good  cause  for  a  divorce,  her  parents 
and  relations  do  all  they  can  to  oppose  her.  Her  chil- 
dren are  old  enough  to  ask  questions  which  she  dare 
not  answer.  So  do  not  think  it  strange  if  she  should 
break  out  at  any  time.  Of  course,  I  think  it  is  a  cruel 
shame  she  should  be  bound  to  the  scamp.  It's  all  very 
well  for  the  disinterested  to  prate  of  the  holy  bonds, 
but  I  notice  few  hold  the  for-better-and-for-worse  view 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  69 

of  marriage  when  just  cause  for  separation  comes  to 
themselves." 

When  Mrs.  Sefton  had  finished  the  explanation  of 
the  cause  of  her  niece's  peculiar  moods,  Elinor  lay 
back  in  her  chair  and  was  for  a  long  time  silent.  The 
old  lady  had  spoken  in  such  a  firm,  convincing  tone 
that  Elinor  had  not  the  slightest  doubt  of  the  truth  of 
her  story.  She  felt  it  was  not  the  one-sided  view  of 
relatives  who  are  sometimes  prone  to  find  excuses  for 
kin  and  none  for  kind. 

"  I  am  glad  you  have  taken  me  into  your  confi- 
dence," said  Elinor  when  she  rose  to  retire ;  "  I  thought 
something  troubled  Mrs.  Laird.  How  easy  it  is  to 
entertain  erroneous  opinions  and  to  misjudge  people! 
I  like  to  learn  lessons,  and  you  have  taught  me  to  be 
not  easily  beguiled  by  impressions.  The  cause  of  many 
actions  that  appear  questionable  is  often  beyond  our 
ken,  and  the  reason  why  we  dislike  people  who  have 
never  done  us  harm  is  often  equally  obscure.  Thanks. 
Good-night,"  said  Elinor  as  she  kissed  Mrs.  Sef- 
ton. 

Though  it  was  but  eleven  o'clock  when  she  reached 
her  room  she  did  not  undress  till  long  past  one.  She 
wondered  how  many  lives  were  affected  by  marital 
woes  similar  to  those  which  had  marred  her  early  life 
and  which  now  threatened  Mrs.  Laird's.  What  a 
world  of  laws  without  justice,  systems  without  order! 
One  rule  for  millions  of  different  temperaments.  How 
futile  it  all  seemed  to  Elinor  as  she  looked  from  her 
bed  to  the  moonlit  scene  without  her  bedroom  window, 
the  blinds  of  which  she'  had  pulled  aside  before  she 
turned  off  the  electric  light !  The  moon,  the  trees,  and 


70  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

the  dark  lines  of  a  near  hill's  rim  seemed  to  have  a 
world  of  pity  for  the  poor  people  who  govern  them- 
selves so  badly.  Their  laws  were  not  of  man's  mak- 
ing, were  not  designed  to  protect  man's  greed  and 
desire. 


CHAPTER   VI 

ELINOR  was  an  unusually  early  riser.  Even  the 
first  morning  at  Mrs.  Sefton's  quiet  house  the  thought 
that  she  had  no  breakfast  to  get  ready  for  Gower  was 
no  inducement  to  sleep  after  she  was  once  awake.  She 
had  enjoyed  a  night's  perfect  rest,  and  though  it  was 
a  cold  March  morning,  she  hastened  to  dress  and  take 
a  walk  in  the  grounds  around  the  house  before  break- 
fast. The  trees  were  bare,  and  Nature  was  cold  and 
sad,  but  the  air  was  bracing  and  Elinor's  blood  was 
warm  beneath  its  sharp  caress.  As  she  turned  into  the 
drive  an  approaching  figure  caught  her  attention.  A 
man  muffled  up  in  a  great-coat  drew  near. 

"  Cyril !"  she  called.  It  was  Gower  who  looked 
out  above  the  turned-up  collar  of  his  coat. 

"  Hullo !  You're  out  early  enough.  Isn't  it  beastly 
raw?"  he  said,  without  the  slightest  surprise  or  pleas- 
ure. 

"  How  is  Lexham  ?"  she  asked  in  a  quick  tone. 

"  Oh,  he's  all  right.  Deep  in  some  play.  By  Jove, 
if  it  had  not  been  for  him  I  shouldn't  be  here,"  said 
Gower  with  a  chuckle. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?"  Elinor  was  all  anxiety  for 
the  crumbs  of  news  to  fall  from  the  reticent  Gower. 

"  Well,  when  I  got  the  telegram  I  had  deuced  little 
money, — no  more  than  a  dollar.  It  was  about  nine 
o'clock,  and  I  had  been  to  see  Hector  D'Erblet.  I 
didn't  know  where  to  turn,  till  a  happy  thought  struck 
me.  Why,  it  was  absurd  not  to  think  first  of  Lexham. 


72  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

111  for  so  long  and  no  chance  to  spend  money.  Off 
upstairs  I  went,  and  he  gave  me  eight  dollars!  All 
he  had!  And,  well,  here  I  am.  Deuced  good  thing 
I  thought  of  Lexham,  wasn't  it?" 

Elinor  could  not  speak.  Her  heart  seemed  to  rise 
and  swell  till  she  felt  like  choking.  He  strode  along 
beside  her,  asking  question  after  question  about  Mrs. 
Sefton  and  what  the  affair  was  to  be.  When  they 
reached  the  house  the  bell  for  breakfast  sounded,  and 
Mrs.  Laird  stood  in  the  hall. 

Elinor  introduced  them. 

"  Mr.  Gower !  I'm  so  glad  to  meet  you.  My  aunt 
will  be  down  directly,"  said  Mrs.  Laird,  who  had  ex- 
tended her  hand  to  him. 

Elinor  moved  away  to  meet  Mrs.  Sefton. 

He  seemed  to  show  a  slight  embarrassment,  and  Mrs. 
Laird  was  quick  to  detect  it.  She  was  not  disap- 
pointed, for  he  was  more  than  she  had  pictured,  besides, 
his  voice  and  manner  of  speaking  pleased  her,  and  she 
thought  he  was  a  distinguished-looking  man  as  he 
walked  at  her  side  up  the  hall.  Mrs.  Sefton  was  fussy 
and  glad  to  see  Elinor's  adopted  son,  and  he  exerted 
himself  to  please,  showing  more  diplomacy  than  Elinor 
gave  him  credit  for  in  being  particularly  attentive  to 
his  hostess. 

He  told  many  anecdotes  of  Liszt  and  Rubinstein, 
and  completely  charmed  Mrs.  Sefton  by  promising  to 
play  the  piano. 

"  But  I'm  not  in  practice,"  he  added  after  consent- 
ing to  play.  "  I  don't  much  care  for  the  piano.  I 
think  it  takes  away  much  of  the  interest  when  one  has 
to  teach  stupid  people." 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  73 

"  Have  you  many  pupils  ?"  Mrs.  Laird  asked. 

"  No,  not  many,  but  more  than  enough  to  make  life 
irksome,"  Gower  replied,  with  some  sarcasm.  "  It  is 
an  awful  grind  to  teach  people  who  haven't  a  bit  of 
talent." 

After  breakfast  the  women  went  to  their  rooms  and 
left  Gower  to  find  his  way  to  the  library.  It  was  not  a 
large  room,  but  it  contained  all  the  comforts  necessary 
for  body  and  mind.  The  glow  from  a  great  log  fire 
dispelled  the  shadows  winter  had  left,  and  if  he  had 
not  glanced  out  at  the  bare  gardens  the  effects  of 
evening  would  have  been  perfect.  On  a  table  he  found 
excellent  cigars  and  cigarettes.  He  could  not  read; 
the  sense  of  complete  satisfaction  was  too  new,  too 
enjoyable;  it  was  a  thing  to  be  enjoyed  for  itself. 
He  stretched  himself  in  a  large  chair  and  waited  for 
Mrs.  Laird  to  fill  his  mind.  His  had  not  been  an 
amorous  life.  He  had  seldom  experienced  the  cravings 
of  most  young  men,  and  love  had  often  passed  him  by 
when  he  never  knew  of  its  nearness.  Once  in  Weimar 
he  met  a  Scotch  girl  whose  talent,  broad  mind,  and 
good  looks  attracted  him,  but  he  never  realised  her 
yearnings  for  something  more  than  good  fellowship. 
A  peculiar  shyness  arose  with  each  thought  of  love. 
He  would  blush  and  henceforth  shun  the  object  which 
caused  the  self-conscious  thrill.  To  him  there  was  al- 
ways a  feeling  of  dread  when  he  met  a  woman  of  a 
strong  sensuous  nature.  Mrs.  Laird  appealed  to  him, 
so  at  breakfast  he  invented  stories  and  kept  the  con- 
versation going  in  self-defence.  He  knew  a  moment's 
silence  would  be  the  opportunity  for  their  eyes  to  meet, 
and  without  the  aid  of  words  to  cover  embarrassment 


74  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

he  would  at  the  very  beginning  reveal  what  he  wished 
to  hide.  He  felt  Mrs.  Laird's  eyes  upon  him,  and  he 
strove  to  look  at  every  other  object  in  the  room  rather 
than  at  the  beautiful  cause  of  his  uneasiness.  But  he 
did  not  dislike  the  agitation  which  she,  all  unconscious, 
awakened. 

For  a  long  time  he  sat  musing  and  speculating,  won- 
dering if  he  dare  try  a  flirtation  with  Mrs.  Laird.  His 
experience  had  not  been  a  large  one,  but  he  knew  music 
would  do  much  to  aid  him.  Gower  was  fully  aware 
of  the  effects  to  be  gained  from  music  on  a  mind  per- 
plexed and  tired,  particularly  if  sentiment  was  already 
there.  He  knew  little  about  her,  but  he  felt  she  was 
worth  trying  for,  and  the  more  he  thought  of  the  mat- 
ter the  better  he  liked  the  notion. 

Elinor  had  told  him  nothing  of  Mrs.  Laird's  do- 
mestic affairs. 

He  felt  a  strange  thrill  of  pleasure  warm  him  from 
head  to  foot.  He  arose  and  walked  up  and  down  the 
room,  smiling  at  the  audacity  of  his  plan.  The  notion 
of  such  an  attempt  added  to  his  pride,  and  though  he 
was  almost  penniless,  no  gift  would  have  made  him  feel 
more  satisfied  or  happy  than  did  the  possession  of  that 
delicious  thought  which  stirred  his  very  soul. 

A  new  world  opened  its  gates,  and  he  passed  in  to 
revel,  delighting  to  see  old  things  in  new  lights  and 
feeling  the  magnetism  of  the  power  he  had  won. 
Matters  that  were  formerly  beyond  his  comprehension 
were  now  clear  to  him.  The  small  things  of  love  and 
life  grew  large  and  throbbed  with  the  joy  he  felt  in 
that  moment  when  the  scales  fell  from  his  eyes,  and 
the  bonds  which  had  held  his  heart  were  burst. 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  75 

He  realised  the  great  change  which  had  taken  place 
within  him,  and  he  marvelled  at  the  power  of  a  single 
thought. 

He  had  failed  to  make  good  the  promise  of  his  early 
days  as  a  pianist.  His  technique  was  all  the  severest 
critic  could  wish  for,  but  there  was  no  soul  in  his  play- 
ing, no  warmth,  it  was  all  the  cold,  hard  expression 
of  a  man  untouched  by  the  pulsating  ringers  of  love 

and  life. 

******** 

Mrs.  Laird  was  with  her  aunt  while  Gower  was  in 
the  library.  Mrs.  Sefton  had  used  the  Virgil  clavier, 
so  that  no  sound  of  her  practising  would  reach  the 
ears  of  Gower. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  him?"  Mrs.  Sefton  asked, 
as  she  turned  from  the  instrument. 

"  Of  Mr.  Gower?  I  don't  really  know,"  said  Mrs. 
Laird,  shrugging  her  shoulders.  "  He  seems  to  be 
quite  possible,  still  I  thought  he  was  over-anxious  to 
please.  Didn't  you,  dear?" 

"  I  thought  he  was  delightful.  So  full  of  charming 
reminiscences.  I'm  dying  to  hear  him  play.  I  won- 
der if  you  could  persuade  him  to  let  us  hear  something 
before  evening.  Do  try  at  lunch.  I'm  sure  you  have 
captivated  him,  my  dear  Gertrude.  You  know  you 
never  fail,"  said  Mrs.  Sefton,  and  she  touched  her 
niece  on  the  shoulder,  and  laughed  at  her  idea  of  get- 
ting music  from  Gower  before  the  evening's  entertain- 
ment. 

"  What  a  strange  couple  they  are !  Do  you  know 
he  did  not  address  one  remark  to  her?  You  seemed 
to  be  his  especial  audience.  I  think  you  should  ask 


76  MADAME    BOHEMIA1 

him,  he  was  so  attentive  to  you,  aunt.  Yes,  he  was, 
and  you  know  it,  you  dreadful  flirt."  Mrs.  Laird 
entered  into  the  spirit  of  fun  and  teased  her  aunt,  till 
both  laughed  and  joked  for  the  pleasure  it  gave  them. 

"  Gertrude,  I  do  believe  you're  jealous  and  trying 
to  hoodwink  me,  but  I  shall  cut  you  out,  see  if  I  don't. 
And  to  spite  you  I  shall  at  lunch  ask  him  to  play,"  said 
Mrs.  Sefton,  with  mock  seriousness.  "  I  am  a  widow, 
and  a  young  man  is  my  natural  prey.  So  beware." 

"  Oh,  you  terrible  aunt,  to  set  me  such  an  example. 
I  shall  be  no  party  to  your  scheme,  so  that  if  anything 
happens  my  conscience  will  be  light,  and  I  shall  not 
have  to  blame  myself  or  earn  the  displeasure  of  your 
relatives  and  friends,"  and  Mrs.  Laird  frowned  upon 
her  aunt,  who  was  heartily  laughing. 

Mrs.  Sefton  and  her  niece  understood  each  other  as 
few  women  do  between  whom  there  is  such  a  difference 
in  years.  Mrs.  Laird  was  her  aunt's  favourite  niece, 
and  many  times  she  had  been  Gertrude's  sole  comforter 
and  friend  when  life  with  Mr.  Laird  was  unendurable. 
Mrs.  Laird's  mother  was  a  society  leader,  and  had  not 
much  time  to  spare  for  such  ordinary  matters  as  those 
which  distressed  her  daughter.  It  was  only  when  Ger- 
trude told  her  that  she  must  apply  for  a  divorce  that  her 
mother  for  the  first  time  declined  to  go  to  some  after- 
noon affair,  dismissed  her  carriage,  and  gave  time  and 
attention  to  her  daughter. 

After  she  had  heard  Gertrude's  story  she  said,  "  I 
can't  sympathise  with  you,  my  dear,  for  I  really  don't 
think  you  have  tried  to  manage  the  man.  He  was  a 
good  chap  when  you  married,  and  a  practical  woman 
would  have  made  a  model  husband  of  him.  You  are 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  77 

far  too  sentimental,  and  you  take  the  ordinary  matters 
of  every-day  life  too  seriously.  .  A  divorce  would  cause 
no  end  of  chatter  and  put  me  in  an  awful  pickle.  You 
don't  seem  to  realise  all  such  a  mad  action  would  en- 
tail. Think  of  me  and  my  position.  One  has  to  bow 
to  good  form  and  keep  a  stiff  upper  lip  when  tears  are  I1 
on  one's  lashes.  Do  be  ruled.  Take  up  with  some- 
thing interesting.  I  suppose  you  have  all  the  children 
you're  likely  to  have  and  the  worries  of  maternity  won't 
have  to  be  feared.  Let  George  drink  himself  to  death 
if  he  prefers  that  kind  of  suicide.  It  needn't  bother 
you.  He  may  perhaps  succeed  in  freeing  you  before 
the  horrid  divorce  court  could  try  the  case.  Do  cheer 
up  and  take  up  with  something  interesting." 

After  the  interview  with  her  mother  Gertrude  Laird 
knew  her  fate  was  in  her  own  hands.  She  neither 
looked  for  sympathy  from  her  parents  nor  accepted 
the  advice  of  her  friends  who  were  opposed  to  a  divorce. 
Her  husband  went  away  on  a  yacht  with  a  party  of  men 
and  women  whose  reputations  were,  to  say  the  least, 
slightly  tarnished. 

Taking  her  three  children  with  her  she  left  the  house 
and  had  it  closed.  When  Mr.  Laird  returned  and 
heard  from  his  wife's  mother  what  Gertrude  had  done 
he  was  alarmed,  and,  for  a  week,  penitent  and  sober. 
But  his  entreaties  and  promises  failed  to  bring  back  his 
wife,  who  had  taken  refuge  with  Mrs.  Sefton,  who  was 
then  staying  at  her  summer  cottage  near  the  sea.  When 
he  found  temporary  sobriety  and  penitence  of  no  avail  * 
he  resorted  to  other  measures,  he  threatened  to  institute 
legal  proceedings,  hinting  that  his  wife's  action  had 
another  motive  than  that  of  escaping  his  misconduct. 


78  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

But  Gertrude's  indifference  and  contempt  were  beyond 
his  uprooting.  All  his  threats  and  efforts  failed  to 
move  her. 

She  could  not  have  found  a  better  friend  than  her 
aunt.  Her  house  was  always  open  to  Gertrude.  Mrs. 
Sefton's  interest  in  her  niece's  domestic  troubles  was 
not  only  due  to  sympathy, — though  her  sympathy  was 
great, — it  was  also  due  to  harmless  curiosity,  and  to 
a  frank  desire  to  know  how  the  world  went  even  though 
the  ways  of  the  world  were  a  little  sinful.  Nothing 
gave  her  so  much  unconscious  pleasure  as  the  details 
of  Gertrude's  affairs,  and  pleasant  were  the  hours  she 
spent  listening  to  the  current  stories  about  Mr.  Laird's 
misbehaviour.  The  old  lady's  appetite  for  hearing 
scandal  was  insatiable,  but  she  was  seldom  known  to  let 
slip  one  word  of  what  she  was  told,  and  to  try  the  pro- 
cess of  worming  anything  out  of  her  would  have  been 

a  hopeless  exercise  for  the  cleverest  cross-examiner. 
******** 

"  I'll  dare  you  to  go  down  to  the  library  and  ask 
him  to  play  before  lunch,"  said  Mrs.  Sefton,  with  a 
mischievous  gleam  in  her  eyes. 

"  Dare  me,  you  dare  me  to  go  down  and  ask?"  said 
Mrs.  Laird,  not  quite  sure  her  aunt  meant  the  chal- 
lenge. 

"  I  do,"  said  Mrs.  Sefton,  whose  eyes  were  dancing 
with  delight  at  the  idea.  "  But  remember,  I  did  not 
ask  you  to  go." 

Mrs.  Laird  was  for  a  moment  or  two  silent.  She 
leaned  her  head  upon  her  hand  and  quickly  summed 
up  what  method  she  would  employ.  A  smile  of  pleas- 
ant determination  settled  round  her  mouth.  Her  aunt 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  79 

sat  waiting  for  some  action  of  Gertrude's  to  indicate 
what  she  would  do.  The  sparkle  of  the  old  lady's 
eyes,  the  comic  expression  of  anticipation,  and  the 
keen  delight  which  absorbed  her  were  too  ludicrous; 
and  Gertrude,  once  she  saw  the  humour  of  her  aunt's 
attitude,  burst  into  a  peal  of  laughter  which  was  as 
musical  as  it  was  merry.  She  ran  to  her  aunt,  threw* 
her  arms  about  her,  and  the  two  swayed  to  and  fro, 
caressing  each  other  and  both  laughing  till  they  wrung 
tears  from  mirth.  When  they  could  speak  distinctly, 
Gertrude  said, — 

"  Do  you  mean  it  ?  You  wicked  old  aunt  to  think 
of  such  a  shocking  proceeding.  Am  I  not  already  os- 
tracised by  the  mighty  of  fashion?" 
•  "Ah,  now  you  are  trying  to  get  out  of  it.  I  have 
dared  you,  for  you  provoked  the  challenge;  and  now 
you  show  the  white  feather,"  said  Mrs.  Sefton  with 
well-feigned  contempt. 

"What!  White  feather!  I'm  off  to  the  library, 
and  if  you  like  I'll  bet  you  anything  I  get  him  to  play 
before  lunch."  Gertrude  was  at  the  door  waiting  for 
some  more  words  of  provocation. 

Something  like  fear  made  her  hesitate  for  a  mo- 
ment. 

"  What  will  you  bet  ?  Name  the  stakes,"  Mrs. 
Sefton  called  in  a  voice  quite  squeaky  from  laughter. 

"  Garters !  I  saw  some  beauties  last  week.  Gold 
silk  and  torquoise  buckles.  They  will  cost  you  two 
hundred  dollars,"  Mrs.  Laird  whispered  in  a  sanguine 
tone. 

"  Well,  it's  worth  them.     Good  luck !     Off  you  go !" 

She  was  gone. 


CHAPTER    VII 

GOWER  had  smoked  several  cigars.  Being  tired  a 
little  by  so  much  speculation  and  the  experience  of 
sensations  quite  new  to  him,  his  mind  fell  into  a  rev- 
erie. He  had  decided  that  an  ordinary  flirtation  would 
be  a  waste  of  time.  He  had  guessed  from  bits  of  con- 
versation at  breakfast  that  Mrs.  Laird  had  children, 
but  no  reference  was  made  to  a  Mr.  Laird.  She  was 
dressed  in  black.  He  thought  she  was  perhaps  a 
widow,  but  he  felt  that  was  hardly  probable,  and  it 
was  not  fortune's  way  of  late  to  favour  him.  The 
more  he  compared  the  dreary  years  since  he  had  lived 
in  America  with  the  possibilities  of  life  with  a  rich 
handsome  young  wife,  the  more  he  felt  convinced  that 
he  had  set  himself  no  easy  task  in  trying  to  win  her. 
Perhaps  a  subtle  expectation  that  victory  would  crown 
his  efforts  in  the  end  encouraged  him  in  his  plans. 

Never  once  did  a  thought  of  Elinor  occur  to  him. 

The  door  of  the  room  was  pushed  open  and  in 
walked  Mrs.  Laird.  He  was  quickly  out  of  the  chair 
and  on  his  feet,  awkwardly  striving  for  an  easy  atti- 
tude. She  walked  to  the  table  in  the  centre  of  the 
room  and  picked  up  a  book.  She  looked  aside  at  him. 
Their  eyes  met.  She  smiled  at  the  thought  of  her 
errand.  He  was  at  a  loss  to  find  a  word. 

"  I  hope  I've  not  disturbed  you,  Mr.  Gower,"  she 
said  in  what  seemed  to  him  a  casual  tone. 

"  Oh,  no.  I  felt  tired  after  the  journey.  Hasn't 
it  got  dark  since  breakfast?  I  think  we  shall  have 
80 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  81 

more  snow,"  he  half-stammered,  walking  to  the  win- 
dow to  hide  his  agitation. 

"  I  hate  this  season  of  the  year.  One  can  never  tell 
when  spring  really  begins,"  she  said,  pretending  to 
look  for  something  she  did  not  want,  though  she  had 
in  her  hand  the  book  she  had  picked  up  but  forgotten. 
In  passing  round  the  table  the  book  to  her  surprise 
fell  from  her  hand.  He  was  quick  to  stoop  and  take 
it  up  and  offer  it  to  her.  In  so  doing  he  noticed  the 
title,—"  Tristan  and  Isolde." 

"  Do  you  like  Wagner  ?"  he  asked,  all  his  agitation 
fled. 

"  Yes.  But  I  am  in  the  elementary  stage.  I  like 
the  music,  but  the  librettos  are  beyond  my  understand- 
ing. The  Grand  Opera  Company  were  in  Boston  two 
weeks  ago,  and  I  witnessed  a  performance  of  '  Tristan 
and  Isolde.' " 

"  How  were  you  affected  ?" 

Both  were  quite  at  ease. 

"  Oh,  I  suppose  you  would  laugh  if  I  were  to  tell 
you,"  she  said  with  a  smile,  as  she  quickly  glanced  at 
him. 

"  Laugh.  Indeed  I  should  not,  for  I'm  deeply  in- 
terested in  the  first  impressions  of  people  who  hear 
the  Wagner  works.  I  know  you  must  have  great  musi- 
cal intelligence  and  the  necessary  temperament.  Wag- 
ner can  never  appeal  to  the  frigid  herd,  that  is  why  so 
many  phlegmatic  people  call  him  mad.  The  artistic 
intelligence  of  the  individual  is  limited  according  to 
the  nervous  temperament  and  experience." 

"  I'm  glad  to  hear  you  say  that,  for  I  myself  thought 
'  Tristan  and  Isolde'  called  for  a  higher  apprecia- 

6 


82  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

tion  than  such  works  as  *  Trovatore'  and  '  Mari- 
tana.'  " 

"  There  you  hit  the  nail  on  the  head,"  he  said,  and 
off  he  plunged  into  a  long  dissertation  on  criticism, 
and  in  closing  said,  "  Half  the  books  and  criticisms 
written  in  praise  of  Wagner  have  done  more  to  mis- 
lead people  of  ordinary  intelligence  than  all  the  asperi- 
ties of  Nietszche  and  Nordau." 

"  Nietszche  and  Nordau,"  she  replied ;  "I  don't 
know  of  them.  Are  they  composers  ?" 

"  Oh,  dear,  no.  The  one  is  usually  considered  a 
great  philosophical  lunatic  and  the  other  a  fin  de  siecle 
crank.  I'm  glad  you  don't  know  them,  for  both  would 
warp  your  musical  intelligence  and  lead  you  nowhere." 
Gower  was  on  his  pet  subject.  "I'm  a  great  believer 
in  musical  intelligence  unhampered  by  technical  knowl- 
edge. Wagner  was  too  vain  and  too  eager  for  univer- 
sal applause  to  forget  the  multitudes  who  never  see 
an  orchestral  score.  The  totality  of  effect  was  in  the 
main  his  great  desire.  Thus,  in  the  actual  execution 
and  performance  of  the  work  he  could  not  get  suffi- 
cient preciseness  and  minute  attention  to  detail.  How- 
ever, he  did  not  ask  from  his  audience  the  comprehen- 
sion of  all  these  particulars.  He  was  a  wise  man  over 
and  above  his  vanity  and  love  of  applause.  All,  there- 
fore, one  need  know  thoroughly  to  enjoy  his  works  is 
a  clear  understanding  of  the  subjects,  the  wedding  of 
the  subject  to  the  music,  the  motives  and  characterisa- 
tion, and  the  dual  actions.  Don't  bother  about  the 
symbolism." 

"  Dear  me !"  sighed  Mrs.  Laird,  "  you  set  me  no 
simple  task,"  and  she  ran  her  fingers  through  the 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  83 

libretto  she  had  been  bending  and  twisting  out  of 
shape. 

"  Simple!  What  great  work  is  simple?  Is  Shake- 
speare simple?  Beethoven!  Goethe!  Brahms! 
Browning!  Simple?  Name  a  work  of  real  genius 
to  which  you  can  apply  the  word  simple.  You  can't !" 
and  Gower  laughed  without  scoffing,  he  felt  so  proud 
of  his  knowledge  and  the  effect  he  was  making. 

He  had  been  a  great  student.  For  five  years,  in 
which  time  he  did  not  touch  the  piano,  or  give  the 
slightest  attention  to  music,  he  devoured  volumes  of 
fine  literature.  But  then  in  after-years,  when  he  found 
he  understood  little  of  what  he  had  read,  he  returned  to 
many  volumes  which  he  knew  he  had  only  glanced 
through  before.  He  once  said  he  could  rarely  get 
interested  in  any  kind  of  novel.  Perhaps  that  was  a 
reason  why  people  and  affairs  seldom  interested  him. 

"  I'm  afraid  you  have  a  poor  opinion  of  the  unini- 
tiated," said  Mrs.  Laird  after  one  of  Gower's  tirades. 
"  You  dishearten  me,  for  if  all  you  say  be  necessary 
for  a  perfect  understanding  of  Wagner,  I  think  his 
works  will  remain  mysteries  to  me,"  she  added,  in  a 
low  tone  of  disappointment. 

"  Ah,  you're  now  making  the  excuse  lovers  of  light 
music  conveniently  find,"  he  retorted  before  he  weighed 
his  words. 

"  Well,  I'm  no  match  for  you.  I  had  no  idea  you 
were  such  a  loyal  disciple  of  Wagner,"  she  said. 

"  Please  don't  think  I'm  Wagner  mad.  I'm  not  a 
bit.  Candidly,  I  prefer  the  earlier  works,  '  Lohengrin* 
and  '  Tanhauser'  to  the'*  Ring,'  though  I  must  confess 
'  Tristan'  and  '  Meistersingers'  are  superb  works. 


84  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

Still,  I  have  yet  to  see  truly  good  performances  of  the 
music-dramas.  Tradition  seems  to  me  to  be  the  great 
drawback.  The  singer  must  stand  on  a  certain  spot 
to  sing  a  certain  number  of  bars;  first  one  arm  is 
raised,  then  the  other,  and  so  on  till  anyone  that  looks 
for  flesh  and  blood  characters  must  conclude  that  in 
many  cases  automata  would  serve  the  purpose  and  save 
the  impresario  thousands  of  dollars.  Wagner  must  be 
acted" 

"  There  I  agree  with  you,  for  the  performance  I  saw 
of  '  Tristan'  and  '  Isolde'  was  an  imposition." 

"  There  is  hope  for  you.  I  wish  I  were  always  near 
you  so  that  I  could  go  through  the  works  with  you," 
he  said  quite  frankly,  having  for  the  time  forgotten 
his  original  purpose.  The  subject  made  him  sincere, 
for  the  love  of  music  superseded  his  passion  for  the 
woman. 

"  Yes.  I,  too,  wish  you  lived  in  Boston.  I  know 
no  one  I  could  rely  on  to  enlighten  me  and  explain 
away  the  great  difficulties.  There  are  many  who  pro- 
fess much,  but  few  who  know.  I  have  attended  lec- 
tures on  Wagner,  but  I  never  get  much  good  from 
them.  Is  it  a  world  of  charlatans?"  Mrs.  Laird  had 
forgotten  her  aunt  and  the  bet  she  had  made.  He  had 
drawn  close  to  her,  near  enough  to  see  her  beautiful 
skin  under  the  gauzy  mesh  of  the  lace  which  encircled 
her  throat. 

"  Charlatanry  has  become  something  of  a  virtue 
nowadays.  I  mean,  of  course,  in  the  cases  we're  talking 
of,  for  I  think  any  man  who  applauds  what  he  doesn't 
understand  is  more  or  less  of  a  charlatan.  The  name 
of  a  great  singer  covers  many  dramatic  deficiencies, 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  85 

for  I  have  seen  vocalists  attempt  Brunhilde  and  Isolde 
without  the  slightest  knowledge  of  the  dramatic  art, 
without  the  temperamental  gifts,  or  any  of  the  quali- 
fications of  the  actor,  and  still  win  the  plaudits  of  a 
presumably  intellectual  audience  and  the  praise  of 
lenient  critics,  thereby  aiding  to  fill  the  pockets  of  the 
manager.  All  such  people,  audiences  and  critics,  are, 
to  my  way  of  thinking,  charlatans.  Besides,  I  know 
several  men  of  sound  musical  judgment  who  through 
friendship  and  other  external  influences  have  com- 
mended performances  which  have  sorely  tried  their 
consciences."  In  all  he  said  there  was  an  echo  of 
his  own  failure  as  a  pianist,  still  the  truth  was  there, 
made  perhaps  caustic  by  the  bitterness  he  had 
known. 

"  Then  where  must  one  look  for  truth?"  she  asked 
in  a  sympathetic  tone  which  was  affected  by  his  man- 
ner of  speaking,  for  his  voice  and  face  and  whole  de- 
meanour all  denoted  something  personal  to  himself, 
something  which  she  felt  was  due  to  wounded  pride 
and  lack  of  opportunity. 

"  Where  must  one  look  for  truth  ?  Within !  In 
one's  self!  But  this  is  an  age  of  repression.  All  our 
grand  instincts  must  be  repressed  and  stultified,  so 
says  the  code  of  society,  but  Art  never  came  from 
society.  Convention  is  the  enemy  of  Art,  and  so 
long  as  fad  and  fashion  prevail  a  work's  intrinsic  merit 
will  never  be  understood  by  the  many."  He  was  aware 
of  a  flux  of  new  ideas  which  seemed  to  be  easily 
reasoned  and  expressed.  The  old  difficulty  of  putting 
his  thoughts  into  lucid  sentences  was  gone.  He  was 
pleased  with  his  own  volubility. 


86  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

"Do  you  sing?"  he  asked,  taking  up  the  libretto 
from  the  table  on  which  she  had  replaced  it 

"  No.  I  have  no  voice,  and  I'm  sorry  to  say  what 
little  I  knew  of  the  piano  is  forgotten.  How  I  have 
wished  for  a  great  voice !"  she  said,  and  a  great  force 
impelled  the  gesture  she  made  with  her  clenched  hand. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  she  felt  all  the  Isolde  had  lacked 
and  that  her  nature  thrilled  at  the  idea  of  the  role. 

"  What  an  Isolde  you  would  make !"  he  exclaimed. 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?"  she  said,  so  earnestly  that  he 
could  hardly  suppress  a  smile. 

"  Think  so?  I'm  sure,  that  is,  if  you  have  a  voice; 
nothing  else  is  lacking." 

"  Oh,  I'm  so  glad  you  think  that.  It  is  dreadful  to 
feel  one's  helplessness,  and  that  one  can  never  be  of 
any  use.  I  would  give  anything  to  be  a  great  singer 
and  act  Isolde.  Oh,  the  *  Liebestod,'  what  music !" 
she  cried  out.  Her  face  was  all  aglow  with  joy  and 
something  akin  to  pain.  Her  breast  rose  and  fell  like 
the  surge  of  the  music  of  the  first  act.  Her  eyes  shone 
with  a  new  fire  which  came  from  a  new-stirred  soul. 
A  tremor  passed  through  her,  she  clenched  her  hands, 
and  burst  out  in  a  half-smothered  hysterical  laugh, 
which  brought  the  tears. 

"  Where  is  the  piano  ?"  he  asked,  overjoyed  at  her 
emotion. 

"  In  the  drawing-room,  across  the  hall.  Come !" 
she  said,  leading  the  way  to  the  door.  He  followed 
her  and  saw  new  graces  in  her  moving  figure.  The 
gleam  of  the  peculiar  gold  in  her  hair  seemed  to  beckon 
him  and  give  him  sweet  encouragement. 

She  opened  the  instrument  and  drew  a  chair  near 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  87 

the  keyboard.  He  sat  down,  placed  his  feet  over  the 
pedals,  rubbed  his  fingers  and  touched  the  keys.  She 
was  sitting  facing  the  door,  looking  at  him,  waiting 
for  the  first  sound.  A  great  sigh  of  exquisite  relief 
escaped  him  as  he  began  Liszt's  transcription  of  the 
"  Liebestod." 

She  sat  enthralled.  He  was  thrilled  by  a  new  emo- 
tion. A  sweet  melancholy  touched  him.  He  knew 
he  had  never  played  the  opening  bars  with  such  ten- 
derness, and  the  yearning  of  the  melody  was  a  reflex 
of  all  he  himself  felt,  soothed  by  the  presence  of  the 
woman  whose  breath  seemed  to  caress  him.  A  sense 
of  gratitude  in  each  breast  tranquillised  the  ecstasy 
each  crescendo  would  have  wrought.  The  effect  of 
the  music  would  have  been  poignant  in  its  sadness  had 
it  not  been  for  the  perfect  communication  of  two  souls 
finding  at  last  a  paradise  of  new  joy.  So  safe  were 
they  under  the  great  internal  influences  that  no  sensual 
thought  arose  in  their  minds.  Her  face,  mirror-like, 
caught  all  the  wondrous  expressions  of  his  own.  At 
the  last  great  fortissimo  a  smile  of  triumph  shone  from 
him,  and  he  realised  the  new  power  within  him.  All 
that  had  been  imprisoned  was  free,  all  that  was  hard 
and  cold  was  now  soft  and  warm.  Something  callous 
had  been  taken  from  him,  and  a  generous  spirit 
throbbed  joyously  in  his  breast.  The  old  vanity  gave 
way  to  a  new  pride.  He  was  a  new  man,  and  a  giant 
strength  entered  his  being. 

******** 

Mrs.  Sefton  had  opened  the  door  of  the  room  in 
which  her  niece  had  left  her.  She  stood  with  her  ear 
turned  to  meet  the  sounds  which  floated  through  the 


88  MADAME    BOHEMIA' 

passages  of  the  house.  She  at  first  thought  Gertrude 
had  failed,  and  for  a  joke  had  gone  to  the  piano  to 
delude  her,  but  on  opening  the  door  to  let  in  the  full 
sound  she  quickly  realised  that  Gertrude  was  not  the 
player.  No  thought  of  the  bet  occurred  to  her.  She 
stood  and  listened.  The  mighty  influence  fell  upon 
her.  She  was  rooted  to  the  spot. 

In  another  room  the  first  faint  sounds  of  the  piano 
reached  Elinor's  ears.  She  had  been  sewing  some 
lace  on  the  bodice  of  the  dress  she  was  to  wear  in  the 
evening.  Of  late  years  she  had  not  often  heard  him 
play  pieces  of  his  old  repertoire.  He  had  used  the 
piano  not  for  practice  or  pleasure,  and  many  times 
when  she  yearned  for  some  consolation  and  had  asked 
him  to  play  a  favourite  sonata  or  study,  he  had  refused 
her  even  that  much.  But  now  she  soon  detected  the 
difference  in  his  playing.  What  was  it,  she  thought, 
that  stirred  him?  She  had  never  heard  him  play  like 
that  before.  Mrs.  Sefton  had  told  Elinor  that  Mrs. 
Laird  once  played  very  well,  but  what  she  now  heard 
was  not  the  outpouring  of  a  once  clever  amateur. 
Elinor  arose  and  pulled  wide  open  her  door,  which 
had  not  been  quite  closed.  She  stood  for  a  few  mo- 
ments, listening  to  the  music  which  brought  no  feeling 
of  joy  to  her.  A  strange  doubt  which  she  could  not 
solve  took  possession  of  her  mind.  She  turned  back 
into  the  room  and  stood  at  the  table  at  which  she  had 
been  sewing,  but  she  did  not  sit  down.  Her  ears  were 
full  of  the  music,  and  every  bar  brought  a  deepening 
sense  of  mystery.  She  dropped  her  bodice  and  the 
lace  on  the  chair  and  walked  again  to  the  door.  She 
could  no  longer  remain  with  that  peculiar  doubt  tap- 


The  great  fortissimo  rang  out 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  89 

ping  on  her  heart.  She  was  urged  by  a  strong  desire 
to  see  him  at  the  instrument.  Down  the  stairs  she 
went,  passing  through  the  increasing  volume  of  sound, 
and,  as  she  passed,  mingled  feelings  of  doubt  and  pleas- 
ure thrilled  through  her.  Up  the  hall  she  walked 
straight  to  the  door  of  the  drawing-room.  The  great 
fortissimo  rang  out. 

She  stood  at  the  half-open  door  and  looked  in. 

Mrs.  Laird's  face  was  transfixed.  Elinor  at  once 
saw  in  her  face  that  no  mere  enthusiastic  admirer  of 
the  pianist  was  at  his  side.  Mrs.  Laird's  eyes  were 
eloquent  of  love,  her  attitude's  expression  was  redo- 
lent of  far  more  than  admiration  and  delight.  Elinor 
could  not  look  at  Gower.  Her  eyes  were  fixed  on  Mrs. 
Laird.  In  a  moment  she  knew  and  felt  that  a  great 
contingency  was  enveloping  the  two. 

Elinor  withdrew  and  quietly  closed  the  door. 


CHAPTER   VIII 

THE  dinner-party  and  the  musicale  were  great  suc- 
cesses. Gower  delighted  everyone  present.  Elinor  for- 
got for  the  evening  the  scene  she  saw  that  morning  in 
the  drawing-room.  She  had  never  before  been  so  dis- 
turbed in  mind,  and  not  until  Mrs.  Sef ton's  guests  be- 
gan to  arrive  could  she  put  out  of  her  mind  all  the 
agitating  thoughts  of  what  might  happen  if  Mrs.  Laird 
and  Cyril  were  often  to  meet. 

After  breakfast  on  the  second  morning  Gower  went 
to  the  library  to  smoke.  He  had  not  been  long  there 
when  Mrs.  Laird  walked  in.  Although  no  words  of 
affection  had  passed  between  them,  there  seemed  to 
be  a  tacit  understanding,  and  the  night  before  both 
had  succeeded  in  assisting  each  other  to  hide  all  that 
might  have  caused  Elinor  or  Mrs.  Sefton  to  suspect. 

They  little  knew  what  Elinor  had  seen.  The  sense 
of  a  venial  guilt  brought  them  closer  than  vows  of  love. 
Both  felt  they  had  much  to  hide,  though  all  was  yet 
to  be  said.  He  had  for  hours  lain  awake  that  night 
thinking  of  her  beauty.  He  had  not  dreamed  she 
would  appear  so  handsome  in  a  low-cut  gown.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  her  bust  gave  to  her  face  all  it 
had  lacked  when  she  wore  her  day  dress.  He  now 
looked  upon  her  with  tender  eyes  and  saw  she  had  not 
slept  well.  His  heart  beat  fast,  and  he  felt  a  great 
yearning  to  tell  her  all  the  wondrous  change  she  had 
caused  in  him.  He  now  knew  that  it  was  all  due  to 
her.  He  could  have  fallen  in  gratitude  at  her  feet. 
90 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  91 

She  looked  at  him  and  felt  the  fire  of  his  eyes.  Her 
head  fell  slightly  forward,  and  she  in  a  languid  way 
supported  herself  by  leaning  on  the  back  of  a  chair. 

"Have  you  nothing  to  say  to  me?"  she  said  in  a 
low,  soft  voice. 

"  Yes ;  but  this  room — no,  not  here.  I  feel  the 
need  of  a  great  open  place,  far  away  from  habitation, 
somewhere  where  earth,  sea,  sky,  and  you  could  hear 
my  voice."  He  stood  near  her  and  saw  her  head  droop 
low,  till  the  whiteness  of  her  neck  below  the  coil  of 
her  hair  brought  back  the  pleasure  he  felt  when  the 
night  before  he  saw  her  in  evening  dress. 

"  What  have  you  done  to  me  ?  Have  you  bewitched 
me  ?  I  have  never  felt  like  this.  I  never  before  played 
as  I  did  yesterday  for  you,"  he  said  in  a  voice  full  of 
emotion  and  joy. 

She  raised  her  head  and  sweetly  smiled  at  him.  She 
was  about  to  speak  when  she  checked  herself  with  a 
great  sigh,  and  walked  away  with  her  head  thrown  back 
and  her  hands  clasped  behind  her.  A  sense  of  absolute 
triumph  flashed  through  him. 

He  did  not  follow  her.  Then  came  the  thought  that 
he  must  within  a  few  days  leave  Boston. 

"  It  is  cruel !"  he  said,  with  great  bitterness  in  his 
voice. 

"  Cruel,"  she  echoed  as  she  turned,  surprised  at  his 
exclamation  and  tone. 

"  Yes,  cruel.  My  life  has  been  nothing  but  rebuff 
and  disappointment.  All  those  pleasures  I  set  my 
heart  on  were  by  some  insistent  fate  far  removed  from 
me.  In  a  few  days  I  shall  leave  Boston,  and  you  I 
may  never  see  again.  All  my  joys  have  been  stultified 


92  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

by  fear  of  the  demon  of  mockery.  The  first  great 
emotion  of  my  life  came  through  you.  In  a  few  hours 
I  have  realised  a  need  I  never  before  knew.  For  the 
new  spirit  I  have  gained  from  you  I  feel  the  yearning 
necessity  of  your  presence.  I  know  that  what  you  have 
given  life  to  will  cry  out  for  you  when  I  shall  be  alone. 
I  now  know  why  I  failed.  The  truth  all  comes  rush- 
ing upon  me.  It  is  as  clear  as  day.  I  never  knew  and 
felt  what  I  now  know  and  feel.  What  shall  I  do  ?" 

It  was  the  cry  of  a  man  who  had  been  for  years  de- 
feated and  scathed  by  misfortune  and  his  own  nature. 

"  Oh,  please,  please,  don't  say  so !  You  will  make 
me  grieve."  There  was  in  her  voice  a  tone  of  plead- 
ing that  went  straight  to  his  heart,  yet  he  wished  she 
had  used  any  other  tone. 

"  You  grieve?  Why  should  you  grieve?  What 
have  you  to  wish  for?  You  must  have  all  a  woman 
can  desire,"  he  said,  with  bitter  emphasis. 

"  Oh,  don't,  please,  please,  don't !  You  do  not  un- 
derstand. You  have  given  me  great  happiness ;  please, 
please,  do  not  take  it  from  me !"  She  had  almost  im- 
perceptibly moved  near  him,  yet  he  seemed  to  think 
she  had  been  shrinking  from  him,  her  attitude  was  so 
full  of  despair  and  love.  He  grasped  her  outstretched 
hand,  which  she  had  raised  in  a  helpless  way  to  warn 
him  of  her  defencelessness.  Her  mind  was  actively  at 
work,  telling  her  of  the  danger  of  her  position,  but  a 
greater  force  was  impelling  her.  She  knew  she  could 
leave  the  room,  but  she  would  not  He  drew  her  to 
him  and  held  her  in  his  embrace.  She  felt  all  the  little 
strength  she  had  desert  her.  He  did  not  attempt  to 
kiss  her.  She  looked  up  in  his  face  and  saw  great  tears 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  93 

in  his  eyes.  She  raised  her  arms  and  let  them  fall 
about  his  head,  which  she  drew  down  and  kissed  in 
the  great  pity  he  had  stirred  in  her.  A  sudden  pas- 
sionate impulse  prompted  him  to  kiss  her,  but  another 
thought  checked  his  desire.  He  took  her  hands  in  his 
own  and  laid  his  face  upon  them.  She  felt  the  hot 
tears  rolling  in  her  palms,  and  all  the  mother  spirit 
in  her  awoke.  She  led  him  to  a  chair,  then  she  went 
to  the  door  and  for  a  moment  listened.  She  closed 
the  door  and  returned  to  him.  He  had  said  he  knew 
the  reason  of  his  failure,  and  now  as  he  lay  weak  and 
unstrung  in  the  chair  he  remembered  the  words  of  a 
candid  friend  to  whom  he  played  parts  of  his  opera 
on  which  he  had  long  been  at  work.  The  scene  was 
now  before  him — in  his  palms.  He  had  turned  from 
the  piano  to  his  friend.  "  Yes,  Gower,"  his  friend 
said,  "  it's  all  very  nice,  but  unsatisfying.  It  means 
nothing.  Take  my  advice  and  put  it  aside.  Your 
pretty  themes  do  not  move  me.  The  things  you  think 
are  big  and  dramatic  are  really  artificial  and  noisy. 
The  real  impulses  are  not  there.  You  haven't  found 
the  ripening  influences.  Some  men  inherit  tempera- 
ment, and  all  the  great  things  necessary  to  the  poet 
and  composer  are  natural  to  them,  others  acquire  the 
essential  elements,  and  through  love  and  vicissitude 
develop  them.  Wait  a  bit.  A  woman  may  work  the 
change  in  you." 

He  now  felt  the  moment  had  come.  She  was  kneel- 
ing at  his  side,  murmuring  words  she  would  have  found 
for  an  ailing  child.  His  head  lay  on  her  shoulder, 
and  her  fingers  regularly  fell  upon  and  passed  across 
his  brow.  The  soft  caressing  motion  of  her  hand 


94  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

seemed  to  relieve  him  of  the  pain  which  a  strong  emo- 
tion usually  leaves. 

"  If  you  need  me,  be  content.  Leave  me  only  for  a 
little  while.  I  shall  come  to  you.  I  have  much  to 
think  about  and  much  to  do."  Her  voice  was  low  but 
clear.  A  smile  of  sweet  resignation  chased  away  the 
expression  of  sorrow.  She  wondered  at  the  sense  of 
relief  that  fell  upon  her,  and  the  fact  that  no  regret 

came  puzzled  her  and  brought  gladness  to  her  heart. 
******** 

"  I  shall  let  this  place  when  I  leave  in  July  for  my 
cottage  at  Manchester-by-the-Sea,"  said  Mrs.  Sefton 
to  Elinor,  who  had  been  in  the  old  lady's  room  since 
breakfast. 

"Let  it!"  Elinor  ejaculated  in  surprise,  as  if  she 
feared  a  monetary  reason  was  behind  Mrs.  Sefton's 
declaration. 

"  Yes.  Good  gracious,  it  is  far  too  large  for  me. 
I  gave  that  affair  last  night  to  please  Gertrude;  she 
has  of  late  been  so  low-spirited,"  Mrs.  Sefton  explained 
in  her  charming  manner  of  half-hesitancy.  "  I  think 
I  shall  go  to  New  York  next  autumn  and  enjoy  my- 
self. I  am  inclined  to  coddle  myself  and  imagine  I'm 
older  than  I  feel,"  she  added. 

"  I  think  you  are  younger  than  the  majority  of 
middle-aged  women,"  said  Elinor,  with  a  light  laugh. 

"  You  do  ?  Well,  will  you  take  pity  on  me  when  I 
reach  New  York  and  show  me  the  sights?  I  promise 
you  I'll  keep  you  busy,  for  I've  been  a  regular  recluse 
for  a  longer  time  than  has  been  necessary,"  and  she 
laughed  at  the  prospect  of  enjoying  a  winter  in  New 
York  with  Elinor  for  a  companion. 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  95 

"Ah,  I'm  afraid  you  will  find  me  a  sad  friend.  I 
seldom  go  out,"  said  Elinor,  thinking  of  the  depriva- 
tions of  many  winters. 

"  Do  you  know  I'm  seriously  thinking  of  asking  Mr. 
Gower  to  take  me  under  his  wing  and  give  me  lessons  ? 
Do  you  think  he  would  look  upon  me  as  an  old  fool 
if  I  should  ask  him?" 

Elinor  showed  no  surprise,  though  she  had  great 
difficulty  in  keeping  from  laughing.  The  idea  of  the 
old  lady  asking  Gower  to  teach  her  was  too  ludicrous, 
and  Elinor's  mental  picture  of  the  comic  scene  was 
almost  too  much  for  her  to  take  seriously.  She  could 
hardly  believe  Mrs.  Sefton  meant  her  to  give  a  sedate 
reply.  But  Elinor  did  not  know  that  Mrs.  Sefton  was, 
for  an  old  woman,  a  remarkably  good  pianiste. 

"  I'm  sure  Cyril  would  be  delighted  to  have  you  for 
a  pupil,  but  I'm  afraid  you  would  find  him  a  dreadful 
taskmaster.  He  is  sometimes  so  irritable  and  severe 
that  I  have  to  console  his  poor  pupils  when  he  lectures 
them  for  inattention,"  said  Elinor,  thinking  she  had  got 
out  of  the  difficulty. 

"  That  would  be  delightful,  and  I  should  not  care 
how  much  severity  he  used  if  you  were  near  to  soothe 
me.  I  shall  ask  him." 

The  old  lady  fully  appreciated  her  own  joke. 

"  Do  you  think  he  will  ask  me  to  play  something  to 
show  my  mettle?"  she  asked,  and  her  eyes  seemed 
to  dance  with  glee.  "  I  think  some  Chopin  waltzes 
and  nocturnes  may  be  passably  well  played  for  an  old 
woman.  I'll  shut  this  door  and  give  you  a  sample  of 
my  quality.  Come  into  the  other  room  where  my 
darlings  are, — my  old  and  young  children.  One  is 


96  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

much  older  than  its  present  mother.  It  was  the  piano 
I  first  touched,"  she  explained,  as  she  shut  the  door 
and  turned  the  key  in  the  lock  in  a  comic,  mysterious 
way. 

She  pulled  aside  a  heavy  drapery,  opened  a  door, 
and  beckoned  Elinor  into  another  room.  Refixing  the 
drapery  she  closed  the  door,  and  Elinor  looked  in  gen- 
uine astonishment  round  a  very  beautiful  room  con- 
taining four  pianos  and  many  fine  works  of  art. 

"  Now  sit  down  and  give  an  old  woman  a  chance," 
commanded  Mrs.  Sefton,  as  she  opened  a  splendid 
Steinway  grand  and  began  a  Chopin  waltz. 

Elinor  was  completely  taken  by  surprise,  and  her 
delight  soon  found  spontaneous  expression.  The  old 
lady's  playing  was  excellent  and  had  qualities  many 
a  younger  pianist  would  have  given  much  to  pos- 
sess. 

"  Well,  do  you  think  I  shall  pass  ?"  she  asked  after 
the  last  bar  of  the  waltz  was  finished. 

"  Pass  ?  Cyril  will  be  delighted.  It  is  quite  won- 
derful. I  had  no  idea  you  could  play,"  she  said. 

"  I  should  be  able  to  play  a  little.  I've  been  prac- 
tising regularly  for  over  fifty  years.  Long  time,  isn't 
it?" 

"A  long  time!  Yes.  But  how  firm  your  touch!" 
Elinor  remarked,  and  she  began  to  feel  that  there  was 
something  uncanny  in  it  all. 

"  Do  you  know,  you  are  the  only  person,  excepting 
Gertrude,  I  have  played  to  since  I  was  fifty.  Don't 
you  feel  honoured?"  she  said,  laughing  at  her  success 
and  Elinor's  surprise.  "  I  should  have  been  long  ago 
in  my  grave  had  I  not  kept  up  interest  in  the  piano. 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  97 

It  makes  me  feel  younger  and  lighter  hearted.  Do 
you  think  Mr.  Gower  will  have  me  for  a  pupil  ?" 

"  I  shall  speak  to  him  if  you  wish,"  said  Elinor. 
"Shall  I  find  him?" 

"  Oh,  good  gracious,  not  now.  Wait.  I'm  afraid 
he  will  think  me  very  foolish.  My  sister  once  said  it 
was  high  time  I  gave  up  the  piano  and  started  to  prac- 
tise the  harp,"  said  Mrs.  Sefton,  quite  seriously. 

Elinor  laughed  so  heartily  that  the  old  lady  forgot 
the  prospective  ordeal  of  having  to  play  to  Gower,  and 
she  too  began  to  laugh. 

"  Oh,  my  sister  says  the  most  dreadful  things.  The 
idea  of  her  saying  I  should  practise  the  harp.  I'm 
sure  I  have  a  long  time  to  live,  and  that  I  shan't  find 
the  celestial  instrument  so  difficult  as  she  imagines. 
I  told  her  she  would  have  no  chance  of  criticising  my 
virtuosity." 

Mrs.  Sefton  delighted  in  making  Elinor  laugh  at  her 
stories  about  her  relatives,  and  not  till  the  morning 
was  nearly  gone  did  she  wonder  why  her  niece  had  not 
been  in  to  see  her. 

"  Oh,  that  dreadful  flirt,  I  do  believe  she  has  found 
Mr.  Gower,"  she  exclaimed,  with  a  merry  start. 

"  I'm  afraid  she  will  find  Cyril  a  poor  subject  for 
her  wiles  if  what  you  say  of  her  be  true,"  said  Elinor, 
with  a  sigh,  but  a  feeling  of  doubt  came  with  the 
thought  of  what  she  saw  in  the  drawing-room  when 
he  played  the  "  Liebestod."  She  had  been  quite  happy, 
but  a  premonition  of  misery  for  him  now  caused  her 
some  mental  unrest. 

"  Poor  Gertrude.  How  different  it  would  be  if  she 
had  married  a  man  of " 


98  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

Elinor  started  and  arose. 

"  I  think  Cyril  must  be  waiting  to  see  me,  and  I'm 
sure  Mrs.  Laird  is  not  blessing  me  for  monopolising 
you.  Shall  I  speak  to  him  about  the  lessons?" 

She  felt  she  could  not  stay  another  moment  in  the 
room.  There  was  a  strange  dread  in  her  heart. 

"  Oh,  no,  please  don't  speak,  not  yet.  Wait  till 
after  lunch;  I  should  feel  so  confused  if  I  thought 
he  knew  about  my  whim.  Please  don't  tell  him,"  she 
pleaded. 

"  No,  no,  I  won't  tell  him  till  you  give  me  permis- 
sion," Elinor  promised. 

"  Not  even  a  word  about  my  playing  ?  Now,  I 
shan't  go  down  to  lunch  till  you  come  up  and  swear 
he  knows  nothing  about  it.  I  shan't.  The  idea  of 
eating  roast  beef  and  all  the  while  thinking  he  is 
summing  me  up  for  an  old  fool  would  choke  me.  You 
won't  tell?" 

"  No,  no,  I  promise,"  she  said,  and  quickly  left  the 
rooms. 

She  saw  Mrs.  Laird  slowly  ascending  the  stairs. 
Both  women  stopped  when  they  reached  the  middle  of 
the  staircase.  Mrs.  Laird  was  not  aware  the  descend- 
ing figure  was  Elinor's  till  she  stopped  and  stood  aside 
to  let  the  younger  woman  pass.  It  was  something 
threatening  in  Elinor  which  caused  Mrs.  Laird  to  start, 
stop,  and  look  up.  Their  eyes  met.  Elinor's  eyes 
were  fixed  ready  to  read  what  she  suspected  in  Mrs. 
Laird's  face.  Gower's  adopted  mother's  mind  was 
alert  and  prepared  to  learn  the  cause  for  the  suspicion 
which  was  torturing  her.  Mrs.  Laird  had  much  to 
hide,  but  she  was  not  prepared.  She  did  not  dream 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  99 

that  subterfuge  was  at  that  moment  necessary.  Her 
eyes  fell  beneath  Elinor's  searching  glance,  and  an  in- 
voluntary sigh  which  had  in  it  all  the  vibration  of  a 
sob  escaped  her.  Elinor  trembled  from  head  to  foot. 
She  felt  her  heart  contract  and  harden.  A  low  cry 
like  a  moan  came  from  Mrs.  Laird  and  her  arms  wound 
round  Elinor,  who  felt  a  kiss  upon  her  cheek  and 
heard  a  voice  in  pain  say, — 

"  Do  try  to  love  me.     I  want  you  to." 

Elinor  felt  she  had  been  standing  for  hours  on  the 
stairs,  but  only  a  few  seconds  had  passed  since  they 
stood  face  to  face. 

A  servant  ascended  and  handed  her  three  letters. 
Whether  she  would  have  spoken  the  words  which  were 
on  her  tongue,  or  whether  by  some  gesture  of  repug- 
nance she  would  have  shown  the  bitterness  and  hate 
which  for  the  moment  possessed  her,  cannot  be  af- 
firmed, but  the  servant's  appearance  was  timely,  and 
Mrs.  Laird  turned  and  left  Elinor  to  her  letters.  One 
was  from  Jane  Dalston,  another  from  Mrs.  Pollack, 
and  the  third  from  Lexham.  She  opened  them  as  she 
descended  the  stairs.  The  library  door  was  half  open. 
Mrs.  Laird  had  left  her  with  a  great  desire  to  hasten 
to  Gower,  but  Lexham's  letter  fluttered  in  her  hand. 
She  knew  the  handwriting  of  Jane  Dalston,  and  the 
almost  illegible  scrawl  of  Mrs.  Pollack,  therefore  she 
had  no  curiosity  to  prompt  her  to  open  their  envelopes. 
Though  she  guessed  from  whom  the  third  came,  she 
tore  open  the  envelope  to  satisfy  the  desire  to  see  the 
inscription  at  the  close  of  the  letter. 

"  God  bless  you  for  all  your  kindness.  I  shall  never 
forget  what  you  have  done  for  me." 


ioo  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

She  read  and  re-read  the  words  till  every  nerve  in 
her  body  seemed  to  repeat  them. 

There  was  a  large  window  at  the  end  of  the  hall, 
and  past  the  library  door  she  went  to  where  the  winter 
sun  shed  some  warm  rays  on  a  settee  within  the  em- 
brasure of  the  window.  She  sat  there  and  soon  began 
to  realise  how  cold  she  had  been  since  Mrs.  Laird's 
sigh  told  her  more  than  oral  confession.  The  first  few 
lines  of  Lexham's  letter  reproved  her  for  undertaking 
the  responsibility  of  nursing  him.  He  had  learned  that 
she  had  borne  the  expense  of  his  illness  and  that  he 
was  deeply  in  her  debt.  All  that  she  had  striven  to  hide 
from  him  was  revealed,  and  his  letter  seemed  both  a 
paean  and  prayer,  for  it  rang  of  gratitude,  confidence, 
and  success.  Every  hour  he  gathered  new  strength, 
and  he  had  now  found  a  stimulus  which  brought  with  it 
hope  and  determination. 

Elinor  was  pleased  with  Lexham's  letter,  but  she  read 
it  a  second  time,  and  sought  in  vain  for  something 
more  than  gratitude.  The  more  she  read  the  letter 
the  less  she  seemed  to  want  his  thanks.  She  did  not 
know  what  was  unsatisfying  about  it,  nor  did  she  really 
know  for  what  she  sought.  The  letter  seemed  to  be 
carefully  written,  but  it  lacked  a  suggestion,  a  word, 
or  phrase,  something  to  break  its  formality,  its  deep 
sense  of  obligation. 

From  Mrs.  Pollack's  letter  she  learned  that  Lexham 
had  questioned  the  Irish  servant-girl,  who  had,  no 
doubt,  let  her  tongue  run  away  with  her  discretion,  for 
Dr.  Brydone  had  told  Mrs.  Pollack  that  Mr.  Lexham 
was  not  to  be  bothered  about  the  expense  of  his  illness, 
and  that  the  servant-girl  was  not  to  wait  on  him. 


MADAME    BOHEMIA1  101 

Jane  Dalston  in  her  letter  said  she  had  called  to  see 
Cyril,  and  was  surprised  to  hear  from  the  servant  that 
he  had  received  a  telegram  from  Boston,  and  had  left 
the  night  before  by  the  midnight  train.  From  the  ser- 
vant she  also  learnt  much  about  a  Mr.  Lexham,  who 
had  been  for  many  weeks  ill  and  cared  for  by  Elinor. 
She  thought  Elinor  an  awful  fool  for  bothering  about 
strange  young  men.  Had  she  not  enough  to  do  in 
looking  out  for  herself  and  lazy  Cyril?  Would  she 
never  have  sense  enough  to  save  her  from  doing  such 
unusual  things?  Jane  hoped  that  when  Elinor  re- 
turned to  New  York  she  would  let  Mr.  Lexham  go 
about  his  business  and  not  permit  him  to  take  advan- 
tage any  longer  of  her  generosity  and  soft  heart. 
She  was  shocked  and  grieved,  but  loved  her  all  the 
more  for  her  pluck  and  courage  in  nursing  a  fellow- 
being  back  to  health  and  strength,  though  the  fellow- 
being  was  a  man. 

As  she  sat  musing  she  saw  Gower  come  from  the 
library,  cross  the  hall,  and  enter  the  drawing-room. 
He  looked  like  a  spectre.  His  head  was  half-bowed 
and  his  eyes  were  fixed.  Elinor  thought  he  was  in 
some  strange  way  changed. 

The  sound  of  a  melody  new  to  her  ears  came  from 
the  drawing-room  piano.  A  plaintive  passion  like  the 
cry  of  a  yearning  soul,  full  of  love's  mystery  and  an- 
guish, first  persuasively  soft  and  low,  which  a  subtle 
crescendo  agitated  till  a  very  tempest  vehement  in  de- 
sire and  longing  rose  fortissimo  on  fortissimo,  crash- 
ing above  the  theme  in  deep  bass  octaves. 

From  where  Elinor  sat  she  saw  the  bottom  part  of 
a  woman's  skirt  on  the  top  of  the  flight  of  stairs  which 


102  MADAME    BOHEMIA1 

rose  straight  before  her  at  the  end  of  the  hall.  The 
edge  of  the  hall  ceiling  hid  the  upper  part  of  the 
woman's  form,  but  Elinor  knew  who  it  was  standing 
there  listening  to  the  great  cry  from  the  piano.  She 
thought  Mrs.  Laird  was  about  to  descend.  She  arose  and 
quickly  passed  down  the  hall  and  entered  the  drawing- 
room.  Grower's  passion  was  past,  and  the  theme  had 
sank  to  a  pianissimo  in  the  bass,  which  seemed  to  denote 
despair  and  futility.  Great  tears  fell  from  his  staring 
eyes  and  his  bent  head  was  almost  touching  the  music- 
rack.  * 

Elinor  stood  just  within  the  room  and  looked  in  great 
pity  on  him.  All  her  anger  fled,  and  a  sudden  impulse 
to  throw  her  arms  about  him  moved  her.  She  saw  the 
boy  who  cried  and  pleaded  for  her  not  to  leave  him 
with  his  brothers  and  sisters  in  the  little  village  in 
Kent.  She  walked  towards  him  and  stretched  out  her 
arms  as  she  had  not  done  since  he  was  a  boy. 

The  moving  figure  startled  him.  He  arose,  turned, 
and  disappointment  flashed  from  his  eyes. 

"  Confound  it,  Diva,  what  a  way  to  come  in  a  room ! 
You  know  I  don't  like  to  be  disturbed  when  I  am  in 
the  mood,"  he  said  in  a  harsh,  petulant  tone;  but 
neither  the  tone  nor  the  words  were  necessary,  the  look 
that  flashed  from  his  eyes  was  enough.  It  stabbed 
Elinor. 

"I  am  very  sorry,  Cyril,  but  now  I've  disturbed 
you,  I  should  like  to  have  a  few  words  with  you,"  she 
said,  going  to  the  door,  which  she  closed.  She  stood 
for  a  moment  with  her  back  against  it,  as  if  she  were 
waiting  for  strength  to  begin  an  ordeal  she  knew  would 
be  painful  and  perhaps  sad.  There  was  a  look  of  in- 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  103 

tense  determination  in  her  set  face  as  she  left  the  door 
and  approached  him. 

"Well,  what  is  it?"  he  asked,  as  he  flung  himself 
on  the  piano-stool. 

"  I  have  an  excuse  to  offer  Mrs.  Sefton " 

"An  excuse.  For  what?"  he  interrupted,  and  a 
peculiar  feeling  of  fear  crept  into  his  heart. 

"  For  our  hurried  departure.  We  leave  this  place 
as  soon  after  lunch  as  possible,"  Elinor  stated  in  a 
firm  voice. 

"  Why  ?  What  silly  idea  have  you  now  got  hold 
of?" 

"  No  silly  idea.  I  think  it  will  be  best  for  us  to  go 
home.  I  came  to  read,  there  is  now  nothing  to  keep 
us.  I  have  made  up  my  mind." 

"  Well,  you  can  go.  We  were  asked  to  stay  for 
one  week.  I  have  been  here  about  twenty-eight  hours, 
and  such  a  chance  I  don't  often  get.  The  place  suits 
me,  and  I  intend  to  remain  till  the  week  expires." 

"  No,  you  won't.  I  don't  think  you  will  care  to  let 
me  go  back  alone  to  New  York.  Mrs.  Laird  would 
not  think  it  respectful,"  said  Elinor,  without  sarcasm. 

"  Mrs.  Laird ?  What  has  she  to  do  with  it?  What 
do  I  care  what  Mrs.  Laird  may  think?"  he  whined, 
rising  and  walking  about  in  a  nervous,  jerky  way, 
growing  more  and  more  uncomfortable  under  Elinor's 
steady  glance. 

"  Cyril,  I  should  not  like  to  hear  you  lie  or  have  you 
resort  to  subterfuge.  My  reason  for  finding  an  ex- 
cuse is,  I  think,  a  good  one,  and  though  you  may  be 
vexed  with  me  for  taking  these  steps  to  prevent  a  scan- 
dal, I  feel  it  is  my  duty  to  do  all  in  my  power  to  get 


104  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

you  away  from  here."  Elinor  did  not  raise  her  voice, 
but  her  tone  was  bolder  and  full  of  conviction.  She 
watched  him  as  he  turned  and  twisted  here  and  there 
among  the  pieces  of  furniture.  He  punctuated  her 
remarks  with  a  "  Bah !"  but  did  not  face  her  or  even 
cast  a  furtive  glance  at  her  eyes,  which  seemed  to  make 
him  writhe. 

"  You  can  bah !  and  treat  what  I  say  with  your  usual 
contempt,  but  I  may  tell  you  I'm  in  earnest.  I  shall 
not  stay  another  night  under  this  roof.  If  you  have 
no  thought  for  me,  I  must  shield  myself.  Besides, 
Mrs.  Laird  has  quarrelled  with  her  husband.  Though 
she  is  not  living  with  him,  they  are  not  divorced,  and 
I  think  it  best  you  should  not  be  the  cause  of  any 
further  misunderstanding." 

"  How  dare  you  mention  these  things  to  me?  What 
have  I  to  do  with  her  affairs?  Do  you  mean  to  infer 
that  my  friendship  for  her  is  not  all  it  should  be?" 

He  had  stopped  pacing  up  and  down  the  room  and 
stood  before  her.  There  was  a  sneer  on  his  face  and 
his  head  was  thrust  forward  in  a  threatening  way. 
In  his  heart  there  was  a  dread  of  Elinor  trying  to  frus- 
trate his  plans,  and  the  new  sensations  he  had  experi- 
enced were  now  doubly  dear,  for  he  thought  there  was 
a  chance  of  losing  all  he  had  counted  on  winning. 
The  moments  he  had  felt  of  real  emotion  and  passion 
now  sustained  him,  and  what  had  been  imaginary  now 
became  real. 

"  You  shall  not  interfere.  You  have  been  the  cause 
of  half  the  disappointments  of  my  life,  but  now  I 
mean  to  let  nothing  blight  this  chance.  Am  I  to  go 
on  with  you  forever,  living  from  hand  to  mouth  f" 


MADAME    BOHEMIA1  105 

"  You  can  please  yourself  about  that,  Cyril,  but  so 
long  as  you  remain  with  me  you  will  have  first  to  con- 
sider and  pretend  to  esteem  me." 

"  Haven't  I  stuck  to  you  through  everything  that 
has  happened?  You  think  only  of  yourself!  Here 
you  try  to  thwart  the  best  chance  I  have  had !  Think ! 
She  has  lots  of  money,  and  when  she  gets  her  divorce 
I  shall  marry  her,  then  we  can  live  without  fear  of 
starvation " 

"Cyril!" 

Elinor  sank  upon  a  chair  and  burst  into  tears. 

"  Oh,  Diva,  Diva,  I  love  her !  Upon  my  soul  I  do ! 
I  was  a  brute!  Forgive  me!  I  did  not  know  what 
I  was  saying, — I  am  all  unstrung.  Listen!  Listen! 
Diva!  Don't  push  me  away  from  you.  I  know  I 
deserve  kicking,  but  have  patience, — I  do  love 
her!" 

He  tried  to  console  her,  but  his  words  did  not  reach 
her  ears.  Her  grief  alarmed  him.  He  went  to  the 
door  and  listened,  but  a  hissing  noise  in  his  ears  shut 
out  all  other  sound.  He  opened  the  door  and  peered 
up  and  down  the  hall,  but  saw  no  one  about.  Con- 
flicting emotions  racked  him.  His  throat  was  dry  and 
his  head  ached.  He  went  again  to  her,  penitent  and 
ashamed. 

"Won't  you  forgive  me?  I'm  willing  to  go  with 
you,"  he  said,  in  a  hoarse,  tremulous  voice. 

"  Leave  me.  Get  ready.  I'll  be  all  right  in  a  little 
while,"  she  sobbed,  but  did  not  raise  her  head. 

"  I  can't  tell  you  how  sorry  I  am,"  he  murmured, 
as  he  stooped  to  kiss  her  head. 

"  Don't  say  any  more.     Don't  kiss  me."     She  shud- 


io6  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

dered  and  shrank  from  him.  "  I'm  getting  over  it. 
Go!" 

He  left  her.  As  he  stood  in  the  hall  and  closed  the 
drawing-room  door,  he  saw  through  the  half-open  door 
of  the  library  someone  move.  He  knew  who  it  was. 
Across  the  hall  he  went,  pushed  wide  open  the  library 
door  and  walked  in. 

"  She  knows  ?"  said  Mrs.  Laird,  in  a  quick  low  tone. 

"  Yes,  she  knows,"  he  sighed. 

"  What  is  to  be  done?"  she  asked,  in  a  voice  shaken 
by  emotion. 

"  I  go  with  her  this  evening — back  to  New  York." 

She  started  and  trembled. 

"  Oh,  must  I  leave  you !  You  said  you  would  come 
to  me!  If  you  do  not  come  I  shall  fall  back  to  the 
state  of  misery  I  had  learned  to  endure  before  I  saw 
you.  If  you  do  not  come,  now  I  have  known  the 
need  of  you,  I  shall  never  be  able  to  work.  The  fail- 
ure will  be  complete." 


CHAPTER    IX 

WHEN  Elinor  sought  Mrs.  Sefton  to  offer  the  ex- 
cuse for  the  sudden  change  in  her  plans  Mrs.  Laird 
was  with  her  aunt,  who  had  told  her  of  the  notion 
which  she  had  in  mind  of  asking  Gower  to  give  her 
lessons.  Since  Elinor  had  left  the  old  lady  in  the  room 
where  she  had  played  the  Chopin  waltz  Mrs.  Sefton 
had  quite  made  up  her  mind  to  go  in  the  autumn  to 
New  York,  and  all  her  plans  she  told  in  confidence  to 
her  niece. 

Elinor  was  not  sorry  to  see  Mrs.  Laird  with  her 
aunt.  She  felt  her  presence  would  strengthen  her  re- 
solve in  case  Mrs.  Sefton  might  try  to  persuade  her 
to  stay.  Elinor  was  quite  calm,  self-possessed.  She 
had  got  over  the  effects  of  the  scene  with  Gower  in  the 
drawing-room.  Her  mind  was  so  free  from  regrets, 
and  from  the  possibility  of  affecting  memories  return- 
ing to  soften  her  purpose,  that  she  felt  soulless.  It  was 
as  if  her  heart's  warmth  had  been  drawn  off.  Still, 
she  was  glad  Mrs.  Laird  was  present  to  hear  the  ex- 
cuse she  was  then  about  to  make. 

"  I'm  sorry,  Mrs.  Sefton,  circumstances  have  arisen 
which  are  so  important  that  I  must  ask  you  to  excuse 
Mr.  Gower  and  myself.  We  must  return  to  New  York 
immediately,"  she  said,  in  a  quiet  tone,  with  just  a 
vague  sense  of  regret  for  leaving  the  old  lady. 

"  Oh,  dear  me,  surely  you  will  not  leave  us  so  soon ! 
What  is  the  matter?  Nothing  serious,  I  hope.  Dear 
me,  I  shall  be  so  sorry  to  lose  you,"  said  Mrs.  Sefton, 

107 


io8  MADAME    BOHEMIA1 

with  genuine  disappointment  and  sorrow  in  her  tone, 
her  gentle  face  expressing  her  anxiety  for  Elinor. 

"  I  am  afraid  it  may  prove  serious  if  I  do  not  re- 
turn at  once,"  said  Elinor,  who  had  to  exert  all  her 
strength  to  resist  the  old  lady's  loving  solicitude. 

"  Oh,  Gertrude,  do  help  me  to  dissuade  her.  She 
mustn't  leave  us  to  mope  about  this  place,  now  that 
she  has  completely  won  our  hearts.  Gertrude,  tell 
her  what  we  were  talking  about  before  she  came  in 
with  this  dreadful  news,"  she  said,  turning  to  her  niece 
for  help,  and  then  to  Elinor,  who  felt  she  dared  not 
take  her  eyes  off  Mrs.  Laird. 

"  I'm  afraid  it  is  not  in  my  power  to  persuade  Mrs. 
Kembleton,  dearly  as  I  wish  her  to  stay  with  us,"  said 
Gertrude,  meekly,  though  she  seemed  to  lay  some  stress 
on  the  pronoun  her. 

The  tone  surprised  Elinor, — the  emphasised  word 
startled  her.  Mrs.  Laird's  eyes  were  dim  with  unshed 
tears,  and  Elinor  could  see  how  overwrought  the 
woman  was  whom  Gower  had  said  he  so  deeply  loved. 

"  Please  do  not  think  I  am  obstinate  and  overesti- 
mate the  importance  of  what  calls  me  back  to  New 
York.  No  light  matter  would  compel  me  to  leave  you 
so  hurriedly,  Mrs.  Sefton,"  said  Elinor,  and  she  felt 
afraid  of  losing  her  grip. 

"  Gertrude,  I'm  afraid  it  is  something  very  serious. 
Forgive  me  and  don't  think  me  a  meddling  old  woman, 
but  is  it  anything  I  could — in  a  way — help  you — to, 
a — well,  you  know,  Mrs.  Kembleton,  I  should  love  to 
be  of  some  service  to  you,"  stammered  Mrs.  Sefton, 
in  a  jerky,  confused  way. 

"  Dear  Mrs.  Sefton,  how  good  of  you,  but  it  is 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  109 

nothing  your  kindness  could  obviate.  Believe  me,  I'm 
sure  it  is  best  not  to  delay  my  return.  I  am  not  think- 
ing of  myself  nor  of  anyone  near  and  dear.  My  sole 
thought  is  for  one  who  does  not  realise  a  danger  which 
threatens — perhaps  her  future,  her  happiness  and  good 
name,"  said  Elinor,  with  her  eyes  on  Mrs.  Sefton. 
She  felt  Mrs.  Laird  rise  from  her  chair  and  go  to  the 
window,  where  she  stood  during  a  long  pause. 

"  It  sounds  very  dreadful  and  so  mysterious,"  said 
Mrs.  Sefton,  sinking  in  her  chair.  "  You're  a  very 
extraordinary  woman,  and  everything  you  do  makes 
me  like  you  so  much.  I  can't  quite  understand  it. 
However,  I  thought  you  must  be  quite  unusual  to  have 
Jane  Dalston  for  such  a  friend.  Jane  seldom  gives 
people  her  friendship,  much  less  her  love,"  the  old 
lady  muttered,  as  if  she  were  talking  to  herself,  and 
had  forgotten  that  her  niece  and  Elinor  were  in  the 
room. 

"  No,  no,  I'm  a  very  ordinary  person.  If  you  saw 
me  every  day  and  knew  the  inner  workings  of  my 
mind  and  life  you  would  perhaps  find  me  a  creature 
without  purpose  or  will.  But  my  lesson  has  been  diffi- 
cult, and  I  have  still  much  to  learn,  and  not  until  now 
have  I  known  how  dear  is  the  good  opinion  of  a  good 
woman.  God  bless  you !  I  must  go !" 

Her  voice  was  broken,  and  tears  blurred  the  things 
which  seemed  to  be  whirled  round  her.  She  had  a 
sensation  of  being  swept  off  her  feet  and  caught  in 
the  circling  storm  which  appeared  to  make  chaos  of 
the  room.  She  felt  her  body  lose  its  weight.  She 
had  a  dull  sense  of  trying  to  move  towards  Mrs.  Sef- 
ton to  embrace  her,  but  the  storm  seemed  to  whirl  her 


no  MADAME    BOHEMIA1 

round  and  round.  She  felt  as  if  she  was  all  mind 
without  physical  strength. 

Mrs.  Sefton  arose  and  went  to  her.  Gertrude  turned 
and  saw  the  woman  she  had  asked  to  love  her  sway, 
and  by  a  great  effort  strive  to  overcome  the  weakness 
which  her  trembling  figure  indicated.  Mrs.  Laird  was 
heart-struck  by  the  strange  appearance  of  loneliness 
Elinor's  form  seemed  at  that  moment  to  have.  She 
was  quite  apart!  She  was  alone! 

The  sound  of  a  servant  in  the  passage,  coughing, 
reverberated  through  the  house  and  pierced  the  awful, 
painful  stillness  which  had  filled  Mrs.  Sefton's  room. 

Elinor  felt  the  dear  old  lady's  arms  about  her,  and 
her  throbbing  head  fell  upon  a  soft  and  loving  breast. 
She  had  never  known  the  balm  a  human  breast  can 
breathe.  To  her  there  seemed  to  come  an  indefinable 
vapour  wjiich  fell  upon  her  hair  and  face  with  a  sweet, 
soothing  caress. 

"  My  dear,  you're  quite  upset.  You  must  not  think 
of  going,"  softly  murmured  Mrs.  Sefton,  as  her  right 
hand  patted  Elinor's  shoulder.  "  Don't  worry  yourself 
about  other  people's  troubles;  I'm  sure  you  have 
enough  to  do  without  doing  that." 

"  Ah,  you  don't  know  what  this  means.  It  is  not 
right  to  think  of  remaining  here,"  Elinor  sighed,  in  a 
wearied  tone,  and  tightened  her  arms  about  the  dear 
old  lady's  form.  "  I  must  go !  I  must  go  to-night !" 

She  knew  she  must  carry  out  her  intention,  but  the 
haven  of  rest  she  had  found  was  irresistibly  sweet; 
she  did  not  wish  to  raise  her  head  from  the  soft  pillow 
of  the  dear  breast  rising  and  falling  beneath  her  head, 
a  rise  and  fall  which  had  all  the  movement  of  a  lullaby. 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  in 

"  Well,  dear,  you  know  best.  But  remember  you 
have  no  fair  weather  friend  in  me.  Do  not  hesitate 
to  come  to  me  if  you  think  it  in  my  power  to  help  you. 
Jane  told  me  some  things  I'm  sure  she  did  not  wish  me 
to  let  you  suspect  I  knew  of,  so  there  is  no  wretched 
barrier  of  formality,"  said  Mrs.  Sefton,  her  voice  full 
of  sympathy  and  sorrow. 

"  Thank  you,  thank  you,"  murmured  Elinor,  as  she 
raised  her  head  to  turn  her  other  cheek  upon  the  only 
place  of  real  rest  she  had  ever  known. 

Mrs.  Laird  had  stood  at  the  window  and  watched 
the  scene.  Her  desire  to  go  to  Elinor  and  lay  her 
hands  upon  her  was  almost  poignant  in  its  intensity. 
She  envied  her  aunt.  So  great  was  her  sorrow  for 
Elinor,  she  could  have  torn  from  her  heart  all  the  joy 
she  had  gained  from  Gower,  but  another  sense  claimed 
all  that  and  opposed  her  better  nature.  She  felt  she  was 
eager  to  give  all  her  sympathy  and  affection  to  the 
woman  who  seemed  to  suffer  so  much,  but  she  knew 
there  was  something  which  caused  that  suffering  which 
she  could  not  give  up  or  sever  from  her  nature. 

She  had  drenched  a  handkerchief  with  some  violet 
water  and  passed  it  to  her  aunt.  She  had  rilled  a  glass 
with  water  and  placed  it  on  a  tea-table  near  Elinor's 
side,  and  then  she  was  lost  to  know  what  next  she 
could  do.  She  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room  and 
looked  anxiously  about  for  something  to  relieve  Eli- 
nor's distress,  but  she  could  see  nothing  more  that 
would  be  of  use,  and  in  despair  she  went  back  to  the 
window,  where  she  clutched  the  middle  sash  and  leaned 
her  head  upon  her  wrists. 

"  How  foolish  of  me !"  said  Elinor,  raising  her  head., 


ii2  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

and  moving  away  from  Mrs.  Sefton.  "  I  am  getting 
quite  childish.  Forgive  me,  dear,  I  have  not  been 
well,  and  this  news  has  alarmed  me." 

"  Hush !  S-sh !  Try  to  keep  quiet  for  a  little  while," 
murmured  Mrs.  Sefton,  and  she  glanced  at  Gertrude, 
who  was  looking  at  Elinor  striving  to  recover  her 
composure. 

"  Perhaps  Mrs.  Kembleton  would  like  to  lie  down 
for  a  little  while,"  said  Mrs.  Laird  in  an  almost  in- 
audible voice. 

"  Will  you  lie  on  my  bed  for  an  hour  or  so  ?" 

"  No,  no,  thank  you,  I  shall  go  to  my  room,  and  get 
ready  to  leave  as  soon  after  lunch  as  possible,"  said 
Elinor  in  a  quick,  nervous  manner.  She  feared  they 
would  succeed  in  persuading  her  to  stay  now  she  had 
betrayed  her  weakness. 

"  You  know  best,  dear,"  the  old  lady  assented,  and 
her  gentle  voice  had  a  slight  tremor  in  it  as  she  turned 
from  Elinor  to  her  chair.  "  I  think  there  is  a  fast 
train  which  leaves  Boston  about  three  o'clock.  Ger- 
trude, ring  for  Jenkins.  I  shall  have  him  telephone  to 
the  station  for  a  state-room,  so  that  Mrs.  Kembleton 
may  be  alone  and  get  a  rest  during  the  journey." 

Gertrude  rang  for  the  butler,  and  the  three  women 
seemed  to  listen  for  the  sound  of  the  electric  bell. 
Elinor  was  standing  near  the  fireplace,  over  which 
was  a  large  mirror,  in  which  she  saw  her  face.  She 
started  at  its  look  of  sadness,  and  was  surprised  to 
see  her  hair  was  disordered.  As  she  gathered  the 
loose  strands  and  pinned  them  in  the  coil,  the  sound  of 
a  sweet  melody  reached  her  ears.  It  seemed  to  come 
from  so  far  away, — an  echo  from  the  dying  past.  She 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  113 

Stood  quite  still  and  waited  for  the  theme  to  continue 
and  explain  its  vagueness.  The  soft  andante  move- 
ment tranquillised  the  perturbations  of  her  breast  and 
soothed  the  conflicting  emotions  of  her  overwrought 
mind.  But  memory  had  not  yet  made  clear  the  remi- 
niscent theme. 

"  How  beautiful  1"  Mrs.  Sefton  murmured.  She  had 
been  quietly  listening  to  the  almost  indistinct  sound 
from  the  piano. 

Elinor  suddenly  remembered  what  it  was.  THe 
first  theme  Gower  composed,  years  before,  in  Dresden. 
And  he  called  it  Diva's  tune.  She  had  not  heard  him 
play  it  since  the  battle  with  poverty  began.  It  needed 
but  that  simple  air  to  reach  her  ears  and  bring  with  it  all 
the  memories  of  happy  moments  spent  in  Dresden, 
after  the  dreadful  catastrophes  which  happened  in  the 
Riviera,  to  strip  her  heart  of  all  the  bitternesses 
Gower's  selfishness  and  cruel  words  had  left. 

She  burst  into  a  paroxysm  of  tears  and  rushed  out 
of  the  room. 


CHAPTER   X 

IT  was  a  painful  leave-taking.  The  dear  old  lady 
was  quite  alarmed.  She  was  also  perplexed.  She 
could  not  guess  the  reason  of  Elinor's  strange  be- 
haviour, and  Gertrude's  silence  and  bewildering  man- 
ner was  the  cause  of  further  anxiety.  The  excuse 
Elinor  made  seemed  to  Mrs.  Sefton  to  be  not  the 
real  motive  for  her  sudden  desire  to  return  at  once 
to  New  York.  The  old  lady  felt  there  was  some  other 
and  more  serious  matter  which  had  arisen,  but  being 
too  sensitive  and  proud  to  inquire,  she  could  not  find 
in  her  own  mind  any  true  clue  to  the  mystery. 

Elinor  did  not  go  down  to  lunch.  She  asked  to 
be  excused,  and  though  Mrs.  Sefton  herself  attended 
to  the  tray  which  was  sent  up  to  Elinor's  room,  the 
lunch  was  afterwards  found  uneaten,  untouched. 

It  was  a  dreary  meal.  Mrs.  Laird  strove  in  vain 
to  find  answers  to  Gower's  desultory  questions  and 
follow  his  make-believe  conversation,  which  every  now 
and  then  flagged,  with  disquieting  results.  They  had 
met  for  a  moment  in  the  dining-room  before  Mrs. 
Sefton  came  in,  and  only  a  few  words  passed  their 
lips. 

"  I'm  so  sorry  Mrs.  Kembleton  is  not  well,"  she 
said. 

'  You  will  come  ?"  he  asked,  as  he  looked  at  her, 
and  felt  he  could  have  taken  her  in  his  arms  and  defied 
Elinor  and  all  those  proprieties  which  he  knew  were 
114 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  115 

up  in  afrms  against  him  and  his  now  determined  de- 
sire. 

"  Yes,  I  will  come,  but  be  kind  to  her.    /  love  her !" 

"  I,  too,  love  her,  but  you — you  have  come  into  my 
life.  It  is  beautiful." 

She  looked  inquiringly  at  him. 

"Yes!"  he  affirmed,  emphatically,  "beautiful,  but 
sad.  Now  I  shall  work!" 

Elinor  had  found  enclosed  with  a  note  from  Mrs. 
Sefton  two  tickets  for  New  York  and  two  bills,  eacK 
of  fifty  dollars.  She  went  to  the  old  lady  and  refused 
to  take  so  much  money  for  reading,  but  Mrs.  Sefton 
insisted  that  Elinor  had  given  her  ten  times  the  value ; 
besides,  she  had  gained  a  new  friend,  and  one  who 
would  be  to  her  a  source  of  great  pleasure  when  she 
reached  New  York  to  spend  there  the  next  winter. 

"  Good-bye,"  said  Elinor,  as  she  embraced  the  old 
lady.  "  I  shall  always  remember  your  kindness." 
Then  she  turned  to  Mrs.  Laird,  who  had  extended  her 
hand.  Elinor  took  it  and  could  not  resist  Gertrude's 
supplicating  glance.  She  kissed  Gertrude  and  quickly 
entered  the  carriage,  followed  by  Gower. 

She  was  glad  of  the  seclusion  of  the  state-room, 
and  the  sense  of  relief  was  pleasant.  Still  she  had 
learned  so  much  since  the  morning  that  many  sweet 
regretfulnesses  tempered  her  triumph  in  getting  Gower 
away  from  Mrs.  Laird.  She  knew  that  Mrs.  Sefton's 
friendship  for  her  would  last,  and  she  also  knew  she 
would  not  hesitate  to  go  to  her  if  Gower's  conduct 
to  Mrs.  Laird  should  threaten  her  niece's  happiness. 
Elinor  had  no  pity  for  him,  and  the  more  she  thought 
of  the  matter  the  more  she  excused  Mrs.  Laird's  part 


n6  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

in  the  affair.  It  seemed  to  her  that  Gower  was  wholly 
to  blame,  and  that  Mrs.  Laird  had  been  only  foolish 
in  perhaps  betraying  an  affection  which  she  should 
have  controlled  and  hidden. 

There  was  no  precedent  in  Elinor's  life  to  guide 
her.  She  could  not  understand  why  Mrs.  Laird  should 
have  so  far  forgotten  her  position  as  to  let  him  know  she 
even  cared  for  him.  He  was  a  young  man  who,  as  far 
as  Elinor's  knowledge  of  his  life  went,  had  never  even 
been  in  love.  She,  in  a  vague  way,  thought  their  pre- 
carious existence  had  had  something  to  do  with  any 
want  of  inclination  he  might  have  had  for  an  affair. 
At  any  rate,  she  could  not  call  to  mind  one  woman 
they  had  known  for  whom  he  had  shown  the  slightest 
predilection. 

Elinor  wondered  why  she  had  never  thought  of 
loving  someone.  Four  men  had  proposed  marriage, 
but  she  had  never  thought  of  marrying.  The  four 
men  were  dear  friends,  and  completely  surprised  her 
when  they  broached  the  subject  of  matrimony.  She 
sometimes  thought,  "  Well,  I've  been  married,  and 
that  must  be  all."  One  man,  a  cousin  of  Jane  Dais- 
ton,  really  loved  Elinor,  and  did  not  cease  perse- 
cuting her,  as  Jane  put  it,  for  three  years,  but  he  never 
awakened  the  slightest  flutter  of  love  in  her  breast. 
Elinor  was  now  thirty-five  years  of  age,  and  still  had, 
in  many  particulars,  the  mind  of  a  girl.  She  had 
never  been  one  of  Nature's  passionate  children.  When 
she  was  a  great  singer  critics  found  her  cold,  and  one 
tenor  who  had  been  more  than  attentive  to  her  once 
told  her  she  was  too  cold,  and  would  not  be  a  great 
artiste  till  someone  thawed  out  her  iciness. 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  117 

Gower  had  left  her  alone  in  the  state-room.  He  had 
gone  to  the  buffet-car.  The  train  stopped  at  a  station 
half-way  between  Boston  and  New  York. 

A  telegraph  boy  passed  through  the  car  calling  his 
name.  He  took  from  the  boy  a  telegram  which  con- 
tained the  words :  "  My  soul  goes  with  you.  I  must 
follow  it.  Be  kind  to  her." 

Mrs.  Laird  had  walked  down  to  the  nearest  tele- 
graph-office ten  minutes  after  Elinor  and  Gower  left 
the  house. 

Elinor  had  given  Gower  ten  dollars;  she  had 
changed  one  of  the  bills  at  the  station.  When  Gower 
had  read  and  re-read  the  telegram  over  and  over  again, 
he  was  seized  with  a  fit  of  impatient  joy.  He  ordered 
more  whiskey  and  soda  than  he  habitually  took  and 
smoked  the  best  cigars  he  could  buy.  He  timed  the 
train  between  stations,  and  counted  the  minutes  that 
must  elapse  before  reaching  New  York.  He  was  in 
a  fever  of  delicious  excitement.  He  might  have  been 
going  to  meet  her. 

When  the  journey  was  nearly  at  its  end,  Gower 
strolled  through  the  cars  to  Elinor's  state-room. 

"  I  shall  put  you  in  a  cab,  Diva,"  he  said,  "  and  then 
I'll  go  to  the  club  for  an  hour  or  so.  I  want  to  see  a 
man  about  a  libretto." 

******** 

Mrs.  Pollack  was  glad  to  see  her  and  had  a  great 
budget  of  news  to  tell  her,  but  Elinor  found  a  pretext 
to  get  her  to  go  downstairs,  for  her  impatience  to  see 
Lexham  would  not  tolerate  second-hand  what  she 
would  rather  hear  from  his  own  lips. 

Lexham  was  dressed  and  sitting  in  a  big  easy-chair 


n8  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

before  the  fire  in  his  little  room  at  the  top  of  the  house. 
He  had  a  drawing-board  on  his  knees,  and  on  the 
board  were  paper,  ink,  and  pens.  When  Elinor  en- 
tered he  was  deep  in  thought.  He  had  nearly  reached 
the  end  of  the  second  act  of  his  play.  He  had  been 
incessantly  at  work  during  the  two  days  she  had  been 
away.  She  closed  the  door  and  was  surprised  he  did 
not  look  round.  Then  she  left  the  door  and  approached 
him.  The  rustle  of  her  dress  drew  his  attention  to 
her.  If  she  had  no  other  memory  of  him  to  cherish, 
the  look  of  gladness  on  his  wan  face  when  he  saw  her 
would  suffice.  She  sank  down  on  the  rug  beside  his 
chair  before  he  had  time  to  remove  the  board  from  his 
knees  that  he  might  rise  to  greet  her. 

"  You're  glad  to  see  me  ?"  she  murmured,  and  did 
not  dare  look  up. 

"  Glad !  I  have  spent  the  two  dreariest  days  of 
my  life,"  he  said,  as  he  took  her  hand  and  kissed  it. 
Her  head  leaned  against  his  side;  she  closed  her  eyes 
and  gave  herself  up  to  the  joy  of  the  moment. 

"  How  much  have  you  done  ?"  she  asked,  without 
changing  her  position.  He  still  held  her  hand  pressed 
between  his  own. 

"  I've  nearly  finished  two  acts.  I  shall  have  com- 
pleted it  within  the  week.  It  is  so  easy,  but  I  don't 
know  what  it  is  worth,"  he  said  in  a  cheerful  voice, 
with  some  confidence. 

"  Read  it  to  me,"  she  said.  He  moved  to  reach 
the  first  act,  which  lay  near  by  on  the  floor. 

"  Don't  move  if  you're  comfortable,"  she  said.  "  I'll 
stay  here,  as  quiet  as  a  mouse."  She  did  not  raise  her 
head. 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  119 

He  passed  his  hand  across  her  brow  and  over  her 
hair. 

"  Oh,  Gilbert,  what  hands  you  have !  How  gentle 
your  touch  is!  My  head  has  seemed  to  ache  for  the 
touch  of  your  hands.  Do  that  again  before  you  begin 
to  read." 

The  sense  of  perfect  happiness  and  calm  fell  upon 
her.  She  felt  like  a  child  that  had  been  all  a  long  day 
peevish  and  tearful,  and  in  the  twilight's  soothing  hour 
had  found  rest  upon  a  tender  mother's  breast,  and 
smiling,  asked  for  sleep. 

"  Shall  I  read?  Or  would  you  rather  rest  awhile? 
I  feel  happy  now  you  are  here  again,"  he  said,  quietly, 
and  continued  smoothing  her  hair  with  his  hand.  "  It 
was  so  disappointing  to  look  up  each  time  the  door 
opened  and  not  see  you  come  in.  It  was  all  I  could 
do  to  keep  at  work  yesterday.  Brydone  stayed  for 
an  hour.  He  is  such  a  good  fellow,  and  extolled  you 
till  I  felt  like  running  off  to  Boston  after  you." 

"  Gilbert,  did  you  love  that  girl  who  stayed  that 
night  in  Worcester?"  she  asked  in  a  quiet  tone  of 
anxiety. 

"  I  thought  I  did.  But  now  I  think  I  did  not  then 
know  love  at  all,"  he  said,  without  surprise  at  her 
strange  question. 

"  Does  love  affect  different  people  differently?" 

"  Yes,  I  think  so.    No  two  persons  are  alike." 

"  Is  there  any  excuse  for  a  woman  who  cannot  con- 
trol a  great  passion?"  she  quickly  asked,  with  some 
impatience. 

"  I  don't  know.  Many  historians  and  biographers 
have  condoned  the  great  passions  of  the  celebrated,  but 


120  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

I  believe  it  is  not  given  to  nonentities  to  have  rebellious 
passions,"  he  said. 

"  Do  you  mean  Georges  Sand,  George  Eliot,  and 
others  who  outraged  the  ritual  and  laughed  at  conven- 
tion?" she  asked. 

''  Yes,  and  those  great  women  we  seldom  if  ever 
hear  of;  the  women  who  inspired  the  great  passions 
of  Shakespeare,  Goethe,  and  Liszt,  not  to  mention  hun- 
dreds of  others  whose  works  bear  all  the  traces  of  love's 
vicissitudes,"  he  said,  not  knowing  why  her  mind  was 
so  possessed  with  such  ideas. 

"  Suppose  a  young  man  who  had  never  really  loved, 
and  all  his  work  lacked  warmth  and  life,  met  a  woman 
a  little  older  than  himself,  and  she  had  quarrelled  and 
left  her  husband,  but  was  not  divorced.  Suppose  her 
artistic  tastes  ran  in  the  same  channel  with  the  man's, 
and  he  suddenly  realised  that  her  companionship  in- 
spired him,  and  that  from  her  he  gained  all  that  which 
his  work  had  lacked.  Suppose  his  lower  as  well  as 
his  higher  instincts  were  stirred  and  he  imagined  he 
loved  her,  and  she  felt  sure  she  loved  him,  would  she 
be  justified  in  doing  what  many  other  women  have 
done?  Tell  me,  Gilbert,  would  it  be  right?" 

"  I  cannot  tell.  Though  you  put  the  case  quite 
clearly,  I  should  prefer  not  to  give  an  opinion,"  he 
said. 

"Why?  I  ask  you,  for  I  feel  sure  your  mind  is 
not  bound  to  conventionalism,  and  your  opinion  would 
be  just,  if  it  were  not  regular,"  said  Elinor,  as  she 
raised  her  hand  and  caught  his,  still  leaning  her  head 
against  his  side. 

"  I  have  of  late  years  ceased  judging  people  and 


MADAME    BOHEMIA1  121 

their  actions.  There  are  so  many  important  causes 
which  can  never  be  brought  to  light,  causes  that  have 
perhaps  conspired  and  prompted  men  and  women  to 
actions  and  deeds,  causes  that  would  go  far  to  exon- 
erate, if  not  to  justify,  what  is  usually  contemned  and 
punished.  Your  case  has  all  the  brevity  and  barren- 
ness of  a  brief,  and  briefs  to  me  are  nothing  more  than 
prejudiced  statements." 

"You  never  judge?"  Elinor  murmured  in  a  low 
tone. 

"  Not  unless  I  feel  absolutely  sure  of  not  only  what 
are  called  facts,  but  also  of  causes,  and  even  then  I  am 
loath  to  give  an  opinion ;  I  don't  think  I  have  done  so 
for  five  years.  Of  course  I  refer  to  such  cases  as  the 
one  you  have  presented." 

They  were  for  a  long  time  silent.  He  sank  back  in 
his  chair,  and  his  arm  lay  down  the  side  of  her  head 
and  his  hand  clasped  her  arm.  Her  hand  still  lay 
within  the  palm  and  thin  fingers  of  his  other  hand. 
A  great  sigh  shook  her  breast,  and  the  hand  upon  her 
arm  gently  pressed  her. 

"  Now  read,"  she  said,  and  she  for  the  first  time 
looked  up  at  him.  A  sweet  smile  was  on  her  face,  and 
the  careworn  look  he  had  first  noticed,  but  had  not 
referred  to,  was  gone. 

In  a  clear  voice  slightly  weak  from  his  condition 
he  read  the  first  two  acts  of  his  play.  He  had  not  the 
strength  to  give  full  voice  to  the  strong  scenes,  but 
Elinor  sat  aside  from  him  and  commanded  a  view  of 
his  full  face,  so  that  its  expression  would  give  her 
what  his  voice  could  not.  She  followed  every  line, 
and  became  more  and  more  deeply  interested  as  he 


122 

read  on.  Here  and  there  he  would  for  a  moment  stop 
to  change  a  word  or  underline  something  to  be  empha- 
sised, but  she  did  not  stir  or  once  interrupt  him.  She 
did  not  speak  till  he  had  finished,  she  was  so  absorbed 
in  the  story  and  its  unfolding. 

"  It  is  excellent,"  she  said,  without  being  at  all 
demonstrative. 

It  was  by  no  means  a  great  play,  and  Lexham  knew 
it,  but  it  was  good  enough  for  critics  to  praise  in  the 
usual  stereotyped  way.  Elinor  thought  it  was  of  the 
class  likely  to  find  a  producer  among  theatre  managers 
who  bought  the  plays  of  good  dramatists,  and  as  she 
had  met  two  well-known  men,  she  determined  to  pre- 
sent it  to  their  notice  when  Lexham  should  have 
finished  it. 

"  But,  Gilbert,  you  are  not  going  to  spend  your 
future  writing  plays?"  she  said,  with  some  decision  in 
her  voice. 

"  No,  no,  but  we  shall  see.  I'm  not  quite  sure  of 
myself.  I  have  had  little  or  no  practice  one  way  or 
the  other,"  he  said. 

"  I  know,  but  if  this  were  successful  and  brought 
in  lots  of  money,  that  would  not  induce  you  to  con- 
tinue this  class  of  work,  would  it?"  she  asked,  and 
looked  at  him  in  a  peculiarly  anxious  way,  as  if  she 
were  not  sure  of  his  bent. 

"  Of  course  not,  but  this  may  be  worthless.  I  have 
written  newspaper  stories,  but  never  tried  the  class  of 
work  you  imagine  I  should  do.  Don't  expect  too 
much,"  he  said  and  laughed. 

"  Too  much,"  she  echoed,  as  if  it  were  impossible 
to  expect  too  much  from  him. 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  123 

"  You  must  remember  I  am  an  untried  man.  I  have 
not  attempted  to  do  more  than  ordinary  work,"  he 
asserted. 

"  Ah,  but  if  you  were  to  be  all  I  hope  for,  your 
dramas  would  never  be  produced  in  America  or  Eng- 
land. What  chance  has  a  really  fine  play  in  this  coun- 
try? Very  few  plays  above  the  average  succeed.  We 
have  had  some  that  have  been  highly  praised,  but  those 
have  not  paid  for  the  cost  of  production,  and  managers 
are  becoming  more  and  more  wary.  Think  of  some 
of  the  plays  the  German  company  produce  at  their 
theatre.  Could  you  get  an  American — or  English — 
manager  to  put  on  regularly  such  plays  as  they  pro- 
duce?" 

"  What  you  say  is  true,"  said  Lexham,  "  but  it  is  not 
altogether  the  fault  of  the  managers.  Actors  have 
told  me  that  stage-directors  have  to  answer  for  many 
failures.  An  English  critic  who  knows  both  the  Ger- 
man and  American  drama  told  me  a  good  reason  why 
Ibsen,  Hauptmann,  and  Lindau  are  not  popular  here 
or  in  London.  This  critic  says  the  English-speaking 
actor  can  only  act  words,  for  he  seldom  searches  for 
the  organic  idea,  the  essential  elements,  and  subleties 
of  characterisation.  Of  course,  he  does  not  intend  his 
assumption  to  be  a  sweeping  one,  for  he  himself  knows 
several  actors  who  are  intellectually  conscientious  and 
devote  all  their  spare  time  to  study  and  observation, 
and  do  not  stoop  to  the  modern  practice  of  finding 
popularity  at  tea-parties  and  other  social  functions." 

"  Cyril  meets  a  great  many  actors,  and  though  he 
has  become  quite  intimate  with  some  of  them,  he  says 
they  are,  as  a  rule,  a  superficial  lot,"  said  Elinor ;  then 


124  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

* 

she  asked  in  a  quick,  emphatic  tone,  "  but  you  don't 

think  so,  do  you?" 

"  No ;  but  the  stage  is  little  different  to  other  pro- 
fessions. There  are  hundreds  who  have  no  right  to 
practise;  but  that  is  hardly  their  fault.  They  never 
for  a  moment  think  that  by  accepting  parts  above  their 
capacities  they  not  only  defraud  the  manager  and  the 
public ;  they  fail  to  see  that  they  delude  themselves  also, 
and  become  nothing  more  than  mediocrities.  You  see, 
nowadays  the  stage  and  politics  are  the  only  two  pro- 
fessions in  which  the  illiterate  and  unskilled  can  thrive. 
It  is  sad,  but  I'm  afraid  it  is  true." 

"  But  suppose  audiences  and  constituencies  say  they 
are  satisfied,  what  then?"  she  asked,  with  a  laugh  at 
the  serious  expression  on  Lexham's  face. 

"  Then  only  the  crank  can  complain.  All  men  who 
want  a  little  of  the  absolute  are  by  those  easily  satisfied 
called  cranks." 

"  I  like  cranks,"  she  said.  •"  I  hope  you  will  never 
be  easily  satisfied.  But  come,  I  am  taking  up  your 
time.  I  am  impatient  to  see  your  play  produced.  I 
wonder  what  the  critics  will  say." 

"  Not  much  one  way  or  the  other.  What  is  there 
to  say?  It  will  either  please  or  displease;  no  critic 
of  reputation  would  bother  much  about  such  a  trifle," 
he  said,  and  laughed  when  Elinor  started  back  in  sur- 
prise. 

"  Oh,  so  you  pander  to  the  easily  satisfied,  eh?"  she 
exclaimed,  half-tauntingly,  "  and  you,  too,  wish  to  de- 
lude yourself,  and  be  set  down  by  others  as  a  mere 
mediocrity.  Gilbert,  I'm  surprised.  I  thought  you 
were  above  such  methods." 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  125 

"  I  am,  but  we  must  set  aside  all  our  big  intentions 
and  coax  the  dollar,  the  coy  cash,  which  I  hate  worse 
than  cant.  I  thought  I  could  subsist  on  ideals, — I  did 
for  many  years, — but  now  I  find  myself  beset  on  every 
hand  by  difficulties  insuperable  without  the  aid  of 
money.  Isn't  it  a  pig-headed,  contrary  world,  this 
world  of  food,  beds,  and  roofs?" 

"And  what  will  you  call  this  bait  for  gold?  This 
object  of  charity  in  three  acts?"  she  asked. 

"  '  The  Fame  of  Fools,'  I  think,"  he  suggested;  "  it 
is  all  about  a  man's  hard-earned  failure.  Do  you  like 
the  title?" 

"  No ;  but  a  better  couldn't  easily  be  found.  *  The 
Fame  of  Fools/  "  she  muttered  to  herself,  then  drew 
near  him  and  laid  her  head  upon  his  arm. 

"  It  is  nearly  all  about  myself,  but  I  suppose  many 
will  say  some  of  it  is  quite  impossible.  People  are 
shy  of  accepting  for  truth  strange  matters  which 
have  never  been  part  of  their  own  experience,"  he 
said,  with  a  sigh,  and  let  his  head  fall  back,  as  if  he 
saw  again  some  of  the  episodes  of  his  early  struggles 
passing  panoramically  before  his  eyes.  What  epi- 
sodes ! 

*          *          *          *          *          *          *          * 

Gower  did  not  return  till  late  that  night,  and  Elinor 
had  tea  with  Lexham.  She  seemed  to  be  trying  to 
learn  from  him  whether  there  was  real  cause  for  alarm 
in  Cyril's  affair.  She  dared  not  mention  the  names 
of  the  persons  whose  happiness  she  thought  was  in 
jeopardy,  nor  did  she  dare  to  make  the  case  any  clearer 
than  she  had  already  done.  A  sense  of  being  unequal 
to  this  emergency  caused  her  many  disquieting  mo- 


126  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

ments,  though  she  felt  she  could  confide  in  Lexham  and 
ask  his  advice  if  matters  came  to  a  crisis. 

She  did  not  realise  that  quite  another  crisis  was  at 
hand, — a  crisis  in  her  own  life.  As  for  Lexham,  he 
never  dreamed  of  what  would  soon  overwhelm  them 
both  before  they  had  time  to  reflect  on  its  irrevocable 
consequences. 

It  was  past  ten  when  Elinor  bade  Lexham  good- 
night. She  sat  in  her  room  reading  for  an  hour  when 
Gower  entered. 

"Hullo,  Diva,"  he  cried,  "not  in  bed?  I  thought 
you  would  be  quite  tired  out." 

He  had  dined  well,  and  his  flushed  face  showed  he 
had  been  drinking  more  than  one  should  who  was  not 
addicted  to  intoxicants. 

"Where  have  you  been?"  asked  Elinor,  surprised 
to  see  him  lurch  into  his  chair. 

"  To  the  club.  Best  night  I've  spent  for  years." 
Elinor  looked  at  him  with  startled  eyes.  "  What's  the 
matter?  You  look  frightened,  Diva.  Anything  gone 
wrong?" 

"  I  think  you  should  go  to  bed.  I'm  tired  and  must 
be  up  early  in  the  morning.  I  have  to  run  around  and 
pay  some  bills " 

"  Oh,  that  reminds  me.  What  did  the  old  lady  give 
you  for  reading?"  he  asked,  in  a  tone  of  jolly  expecta- 
tion. 

"  One  hundred  dollars.    Why?"  she  asked. 

He  tried  to  slap  his  knee  but  struck  the  arm  of  his 
chair,  an  accident  which  turned  his  bibulous  smile  to 
a  momentary  expression  of  pain. 

"  I  say,  Diva,  you  know  I  want  a  new  coat,  and " 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  127 

"  The  coat  you  have  will  surely  last  for  two  months 
more.  It  was  new  last  winter,"  she  exclaimed. 

"  I  know  it  was,  but  I  never  liked  the  shape  of  it. 
It's  a  hideous  thing,"  he  said,  with  an  impatient  gest- 
ure. 

"  Well,  I'm  sorry,  Cyril,  but  I  can't  see  how  I'll  be 
able  to  spare  any  money  for  a  coat  just  at  present,"  she 
said. 

"  Then  you  shouldn't  have  let  me  order  it,"  he 
blurted  out,  in  an  injured  tone,  and  hung  his  head  on 
one  side,  showing  his  disappointment  by  short  grunts 
and  twists  of  his  body.  If  he  had  intentionally  tried 
to  displease  Elinor  he  could  not  have  done  it  more 
effectively. 

She  arose  and  began  to  put  away  the  screen  which 
hid  her  bed.  She  was  too  disgusted,  too  hurt  to  speak. 
He  got  on  his  feet  and  tried  to  walk  up  and  down  the 
room  with  some  dignity,  but  he  only  succeeded  in 
bumping  into  pieces  of  furniture. 

Elinor  pulled  out  her  folding-bed  and  arranged  the 
nook  in  which  she  slept.  It  was  an  alcove,  about  ten 
feet  long  and  seven  feet  wide.  Gower  lurched  about 
the  room  muttering  to  himself.  At  length,  surprised 
that  Elinor  had  not  spoken  for,  as  it  seemed  to  him, 
a  long  time,  he  went  to  the  entrance  of  the  alcove,  and 
saw  her  sitting  on  the  side  of  her  bed. 

"  What  are  you  doing?"  he  asked. 

"  Waiting  for  you  to  leave  the  room,"  she  said  in 
a  peremptory  tone. 

"  Why  did  you  let  me  order  it?"  he  whined. 

"  I  knew  nothing  about  it.     Please  go " 

"  You  knew  I  didn't  like  the  horrid  thing  I  had  to 


128  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

wear  this  morning  when  we  left  Boston.    Didn't  you 
see  Mrs.  Laird  and  Mrs.  Sefton  look  at  it?" 

"  No,  I  did  not,  and  I  don't  believe  them  capable  of 
being  so  rude.  You  imagined  that,"  she  said,  hurt 
beyond  measure  at  the  thought  of  him  thinking  such  a 
small  thing  possible. 

She  felt  that  neither  Mrs.  Sefton  nor  Mrs.  Laird 
would  notice  the  cut  of  his  coat.  Elinor  thought  it  was 
a  good  warm  winter  covering,  and  though  it  was  a 
ready-made  article,  he  looked  very  well  in  it,  and  Eli- 
nor felt  that  if  she  were  satisfied,  all  others  who  could 
not  be  half  so  proud  as  she  was  of  his  appearance  must 
surely  be  satisfied  too.  He  had  never  complained  to 
her  about  the  coat  till  now,  and  another  thought,  that 
it  was  not  so  much  a  matter  of  his  dislike  for  the  coat 
as  it  was  a  new  desire  to  look  as  handsome  as  possible 
in  Mrs.  Laird's  eyes,  rankled  in  her  tortured  mind  till 
ishe  began  to  wish  Jane  Dalston  had  never  known  Mrs. 
Sefton. 

Elinor  had  many  times  given  him  small  sums  of 
money  which  she  had  with  much  difficulty  saved  to  get 
a  new  dress,  and  these  sums  he  had  never  hesitated 
to  take,  having  a  vague  idea  that  if  he  were  well- 
dressed  Providence  would  provide  gowns  for  Diva. 

He  leaned  against  the  arch  of  the  alcove  and 
searched  his  pockets  for  a  letter.  In  taking  out  some 
papers  a  telegram  fell  unnoticed  to  the  floor.  He 
opened  a  note  and  read  something  to  the  effect  that 
the  coat  would  be  ready  the  next  day. 

"  What  am  I  to  do  ?  I  particularly  want  it  for  Fri- 
'day.  This  tailor  doesn't  know  me.  I  can't  go  to  him 
and  say  I've  changed  my  mind,  or — well,  if  you  can't 


MADAME   BOHEMIA  129 

spare  the  money  I  shall  look  an  awful  fool/'  he  mum- 
bled, and  held  out  the  letter  from  the  tailor  for  Elinor 
to  read. 

"  How  much  will  the  coat  be?"  she  asked,  without 
noticing  the  letter. 

"  Oh,  forty  or  forty-five  dollars,  I  suppose,"  he  an- 
swered, in  rather  a  shamed  way. 

Not  until  he  mentioned  the  price  did  the  absurdity 
of  his  thoughtless  action  in  ordering  so  expensive  a 
coat  strike  him.  He  felt  afraid  to  look  at  Elinor.  She 
flashed  an  angry  glance  at  him.  Tears  filled  her  eyes 
and  stole  down  her  face,  leaving  an  expression  of 
sorrow. 

"  It  is  a  bit  stiff,  I  know,  Diva,  but  I  shan't  want 
another  coat  next  winter,"  he  said  in  excuse  for  his 
prodigality,  of  which  he  was  now  beginning  to  be 
heartily  ashamed. 

"  Cyril,  I  will  give  you  the  money  for  your  coat. 
But  I  must  tell  you  we  are  in  debt,  and  I  haven't  the 
slightest  idea  from  where  I  am  to  get  money  to  pay 
our  expenses  till  my  tour  of  readings  in  May.  People 
are  getting  tired  of  me,  and  I  am  not  getting  younger ; 
in  fact,  the  agents  have  been  obliged  to  reduce  my 
terms  to  get  societies  to  give  me  an  engagement." 

Her  voice  was  quite  firm  and  never  once  quavered 
in  making  this  admission.  She  thought  she  never  felt 
so  practical,  though  she  had  been  wounded  to  the  quick 
when  her  agent  first  notified  her  of  the  difficulty  he 
now  had  in  obtaining  dates  for  her. 

"  What !"  Gower  shouted,  when  he  realised  what 
she  had  said.  "  What !  It's  monstrous !  You  shall 
not  read  any  more !  I  always  thought  the  Lyceum  and 

9 


130  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

Christian   Association  people   a  lot  of   thick-headed 
prigs!" 

:<  You  know  nothing  about  it,"  said  Elinor  calmly, 
after  a  moment's  pleasure  to  see  him  fired  to  anger  at 
the  unintentional  insult. 

"  Don't  I?  Well!  Haven't  I  had  to  play  to  such 
people?"  he  cried,  the  memory  of  his  piano  recitals 
coming  back  to  him.  "  But  wait,  Diva !  I'll  start  prac- 
tising to-morrow  and  get  your  man  to  book  a  tour  for 
me.  Don't  you  worry,  dear,  about  debts.  I'll  show 
the  idiots.  I'll  not  bother  you  again  about  coats.  I've 
hated  the  piano,  as  you  know,  but  somehow  of  late  I've 
got  to  like  it;  it  doesn't  sound  half  so  harsh  and  me- 
tallic as  it  did,"  he  said,  with  a  low  chuckle,  as  he 
shook  his  shoulders  and  wagged  his  head  with  a  know- 
ing air. 

Elinor  remembered  the  difference  in  his  playing,  and 
now  something  in  his  manner  seemed  to  convince  her 
that  Mrs.  Laird  had  in  some  strange  way  worked  a 
great  change  in  him.  What  influence  it  was  she  could 
not  divine,  still,  the  change  happened  in  Boston,  and 
she  saw  Mrs.  Laird  seated  near  him  at  the  keyboard. 

"  Good-night,  Diva ;  I've  got  some  work  to  do.  I'll 
go  to  that  tailor  and  have  a  talk  with  him  about  the 
coat,"  he  said,  with  swaggering  magnanimity,  as  if 
she  were  the  one  who  had  ordered  it. 

"  No,  say  nothing  more  about  it.  I'll  give  you  the 
money.  Pay  for  it.  We  shall  have  to  manage  in  some 
way  or  another.  I'll  find  a  way,"  she  said. 

"  Just  as  you  like,  dear,  but  I'd  rather  not  have  the 
coat  if  the  money  is  really  needed  for  something  else. 
But,  of  course,  Mrs.  Pollack  can  wait,  can't  she?  and 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  131 

I  can't  work  if  I'm  constantly  thinking  I  shall  have  to 
wear  that  wretched  thing  every  time  I  go  out.  Good- 
night." 

Elinor  knew  she  had  done  wrong.  She  knew  that 
it  would  be  very  unjust  to  ask  Mrs.  Pollack  to  wait 
any  longer,  and  that  many  small  tradesmen  had  been 
more  than  usually  kind  to  her.  It  never  entered  her 
mind  to  ask  Cyril  to  write  to  the  tailor  and  offer  him 
a  fourth  of  the  cost  of  the  coat  to  keep  it  for  a  week 
or  two  till  he  could  get  the  rest  of  the  money  to  pay 
him. 

She  walked  her  room  till  midnight,  wondering  how 
it  was  possible  to  meet  the  difficulty,  which  seemed  to 
swell  to  gigantic  proportions  as  the  minutes  passed 
and  brought  no  semblance  of  a  solution.  She  went  to 
her  desk,  examined  the  many  unpaid  bills,  and  found 
she  was  in  debt  to  the  extent  of  over  two  hundred  and 
fifty  dollars.  She  had  little  jewelry  left  that  was  pawn- 
able.  Her  plight  was  indeed  serious.  She  had  only 
ninety  dollars  in  hand.  Forty  of  these,  at  least,  she 
had  promised  to  Gower  for  his  new  coat.  She  could 
not  see  how  to  divide  the  remainder  among  six  trades- 
men to  each  of  whom  she  owed  different  amounts  of 
over  twenty  dollars  and  at  the  same  time  leave  some- 
thing for  Mrs.  Pollack. 

At  last,  tired  of  juggling  with  figures  which  baffled 
her  wits, — figures  which  were  turning,  twisting,  swell- 
ing, and  gambolling  on  ceiling,  floor,  and  walls  in  the 
flickering  light  from  the  dying  fire ;  at  last,  thoroughly 
wearied  and  worn  out,  she  began  to  undress.  In  pass- 
ing into  the  alcove  she  saw  the  telegram  Gower 
dropped  when  he  was  searching  his  pockets  for  the 


132  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

tailor's  letter.  Elinor  picked  it  up  and  read  it  before 
she  realised  what  it  was  and  to  whom  it  was  ad- 
dressed. 

Elinor  trembled  from  head  to  foot  and  sank  on  the 
side  of  her  bed.  She  could  hear  Gower  humming 
Walter's  prize  song.  He  was  not  in  bed.  Should  she 
go  to  him  ?  She  thought  it  was  impossible  to  think  of 
attempting  to  sleep  with  the  knowledge  which  that 
telegram  conveyed  burning  her  brain  and  racking  her 
heart.  To  keep  silent  was  a  torture  she  felt  incapable 
of  enduring.  She  arose  and  opened  the  door  which 
led  to  the  landing  at  the  end  of  which  was  Gower's 
room.  The  landing  was  dark,  but  through  the  keyhole 
and  under  the  door  Elinor  could  see  gleams  of  light, 
which  led  her  to  believe  Cyril  was  at  work.  She 
stepped  into  her  room,  closed  her  door,  and  found  a 
dressing-gown,  which  she  slipped  on.  Then  she 
thought  it  would  be  useless  to  appeal  to  his  sense  of 
honour.  She  went  to  the  fire,  sat  down  and  smoothed 
out  the  crushed  telegram,  which  was  now  stained  from 
the  sweat  of  her  palms,  in  which  she  had  tightly  held  it. 

"  Send  no  more  telegrams.  Aunt  curious.  No 
cause  to  doubt.  Will  meet  you  New  York  Central 
Depot  Friday,  four  o'clock." 

Elinor  thought  it  was  all  as  plain  as  day.  They  had 
by  telegraph  planned  an  elopement,  she  imagined,  and 
no  mental  puzzling  could  give  the  telegram  any  other 
meaning.  She  arose  at  last,  sure  in  her  mind  that  she 
could  confront  Cyril  and  try  to  bring  him  to  a  state  of 
reason.  She  reopened  her  room  door,  stepped  on  to 
the  landing,  and  started  for  Gower's  room.  A  sound 
from  upstairs  stopped  her. 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  133 

It  was  a  cough  which  pierced  the  darkness.  It 
seemed  to  go  through  her  heart. 

She  stood  quite  still  and  listened. 

Again  the  cough  she  knew  so  well  reverberated 
'down  the  silent  passages  and  staircase  of  the  house. 

Heavens!  she  thought,  how  still  it  all  seemed  be- 
tween the  sounds  of  coughing,  and  yet  that  soft  roar 
from  the  vibrations  of  the  outer  night!  She  remem- 
'bered  how  one  morning  very  early  she  sat  on  those 
stairs  and  dared  not  go  into  her  room  where  Lexham 
was. 

Silently  she  crept  up  the  long  flights  of  stairs  and 
stood  near  the  door  of  the  room  which  death  threat- 
ened not  long  ago. 

A  gleam  of  light  round  the  ill-fitting  door  told  her 
\Lexham  was  awake. 

She  knocked  gently  and  drew  back. 

"  Come  in,"  said  a  weak  voice,  rather  wearily. 
>  She  opened  the  door,  entered,  and  closed  it. 


CHAPTER    XI 

IN  a  Vienna  cafe,  near  Grace  Church,  on  Broad- 
way, three  men  sat  at  a  table  in  a  room  at  the  top  of 
a  broad  flight  of  stairs.  These  men  were  in  earnest 
conversation  which  was  not  intended  to  reach  the  ears 
of  other  habitues.  It  was  a  simple  room  of  fair  size 
above  a  large  hall,  which  on  fine  afternoons  was  filled 
with  beautiful  women,  richly  dressed,  and  with  de- 
bonair men  of  business.  The  room  upstairs  was  the 
rendezvous  of  musicians,  critics,  and  literary  men. 
Sometimes  leading  actors  were*  seen  there,  but  they 
never  seemed  to  be  integrant  parts  of  the  company. 

The  three  men  referred  to  at  the  beginning  of  this 
chapter  were  Naton  Silde,  Hector  D'Erblet,  and  Drake. 
Silde  was  the  man  above  all  others  who  had  done  most 
for  music  in  America,  D'Erblet  was  a  'cellist  and  an 
excellent  musician,  and  Drake — poor  Drake — a  genius 
and  a  nobody.  His  pallid  face  and  lustrous  eyes,  his 
sensitive  mouth  and  nervous  brow,  the  long  thin  mous- 
tache and  delicately  chiselled  nose,  were  so  interesting 
that  Silde  once  said  he  would  rather  look  on  his  face 
for  ten  minutes  than  hear  him  speak  for  an  hour.  Yet 
Drake  was  not  only  a  famous  raconteur,  he  was  one  of 
the  best  informed  talkers  among  the  many  brilliant 
habitues  of  the  cafe. 

At  another  table,  in  a  corner  of  the  room,  near  a 
window   overlooking   Broadway,    sat   a   man   and   a 
woman, — Gower  and  Mrs.  Laird.      Gower  was  the 
subject  of  Drake's  conversation. 
134 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  135 

"  Who  is  the  woman?"  D'Erblet  inquired  of  Drake. 

"  I  don't  know.  She  seems  to  be  breathing  affection 
on  Gower.  Could  anything  be  more  beautiful  than 
the  expression  of  her  face.  I'd  give  away  my  soul  a 
la  Faust  to  know  for  one  moment  the  mystery  of  bliss 
which  makes  that  face  beatific/'  said  Drake,  repressing 
a  thrill  of  exultation. 

"  There  should  be  more  in  his  music  than  I  have 
found/'  said  Silde. 

"  Yes/'  said  D'Erblet,  "  this  is  quite  a  surprise  for 
me.  I  can't  understand  why  his  work  should  be  so 
academic." 

"Has  he  done  anything?"    Drake  asked. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  D'Erblet  replied,  "  but  I'm  afraid  he 
will  meet  with  disappointment.  He  has  composed  an 
operatta  on  a  Hindoo  subject.  The  treatment  is  fair, 
but  it  is  thematically  weak,  and  he  has  to  learn  much 
about  the  orchestra  yet." 

"  What  a  life !"  exclaimed  Drake.  "  I  wonder  how 
they  live.  It  seems  to  me  like  a  dream.  Her  glorious 
voice  gone,  her  fame  almost  forgotten.  His  talent  as 
a  boy  come  to  nothing  and  his  popularity  vanished 
with  his  youth.  He  played  to  kings  and  queens  when 
he  was  a  lad,  and  was  a  pet  of  Liszt  and  Rubenstein. 
Small  wonder  that  this  is  an  age  of  scepticism.  He 
showed  great  promise,  says  the  charitable  biographer, 
which  to  the  younger  generation  implies  he  was  a  harm- 
less failure." 

"  He  has  time,"  murmured  Silde,  with  a  kind  nod 
of  his  leonine  head.  "  They  cannot  all  be  Schuberts 
and  Wagners.  Gower  scores  very  well.  He  did  some 
of  Greig's  piano  pieces  for  me." 


136  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

"  Yes,  but  that  Liszt  ballade  was  not  well  done," 
D'Erblet  said. 

"  That  is  the  reason  why  I  cannot  understand  the 
scene  in  yonder  corner.  He  should  be  able  to  under- 
stand a  Liszt  ballade  if  he  feels  all  that  is  in  his  beauti- 
ful companion's  heart,"  said  Silde,  dreamily,  after  a 
long  look  at  Gower  and  Mrs.  Laird. 

"  Look,"  said  Drake,  "  she  can  hardly  keep  her 
yearning  hands  off  him.  I'm  glad  I've  seen  this. 
Such  a  scene  softens  the  hard  lines  of  life  and  fills  my 
vision  with  roseate  hues.  There  is  poetry  in  life,  and 
not  all  the  beautiful  scenes  are  only  for  the  rhapsodist's 
eye." 

He  rubbed  together  his  nervous  hands  and  gave  a 
low  laugh  of  exultation.  The  expression  of  his  face, 
which  had  been  beaming  with  pleasure,  suddenly 
changed.  Almost  a  weird,  fantastic  delight  shone  in 
his  eyes,  which  seemed  to  darken.  Silde  looked  at 
him  in  mute  astonishment.  D'Erblet's  great  big  eyes 
threatened  to  leave  their  caves  under  his  heavy  brows 
and  to  roll  down  his  fat  cheeks. 

"  But  the  other  scene,"  Drake  whispered,  with  fiend- 
ish joy.  "  The  crack  of  that  pistol  and  the  thud  of 
that  soulless  body,  stark  in  violent  death  across  the 
threshold  of  her  bedroom  door.  And  her  piercing 
shriek,  the  last  grand  note  of  her  superb  voice,  the 
terror-stricken  face  of  the  boy.  The  confusion  and 
babel  of  voices  in  the  passage.  I'm  glad  I  didn't  miss 
that  scene.  By  accident  I  walked  through  her  room 
just  as  the  shot  was  fired.  She  thought  it  was  her  hus- 
band, the  besotted  gambler,  but  it  wasn't.  No,  it 
wasn't  her  husband.  It  was  Roderigo,  penniless,  dis- 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  137 

"honoured  and  cast  off  by  her  husband,  for  the  Des- 
demona  of  the  tragedy  was  in  this  case  not  Othello's 
wife,  but  lago's  own.  But  they  don't  know  why 
he  shot  himself;  no,  no!  that's  the  beauty  of  it 
all.  They  don't  know.  What  is  more  beautiful 
than  horrible  mystery?  It  is  the  fascination  of  the 
cobra.  Think  of  knowing  the  tragedy  of  two  lives. 
No  one  else  knows.  All  my  secret!  All  mine! 
And  I  wouldn't  let  a  single  soul  share  it  with  me, 

"  Drake,  Drake,  stop  for  Heaven's  sake !"  D'Erblet 
cried.  "  What  the  devil  has  it  to  do  with  Gower?" 

"Gower!  Who  said  anything  about  Gower?  I 
didn't  mention  his  name.  Yes,  what  the  devil  has  it 
to  do  with  Gower?  You  are  dreaming,  D'Erblet," 
said  Drake,  who  laughed  at  his  friend's  face,  which 
wore  a  serious  expression. 

"  Dreaming !"  exclaimed  D'Erblet. 

"  He  has  been  trying  a  scene  on  you  from  his  new 
book  of  short  stories,"  Silde  interposed,  "  and  it  seemed 
to  go  very  well,  very  well,  Drake.  D'Erblet  is  a  good 
public — what  d'you  call  it? — audience?  Well,  never 
mind,  he  was  deeply  interested." 

"  Interested !  I  should  say  I  was.  I  thought  he 
was  telling  us  something  about  the  affair  at  Monte 
Carlo  and  the  reason  why  Mrs.  Kembleton  lost  her 
voice,"  D'Erblet  remarked. 

There  was  something  in  the  way  in  which  he  spoke 
of  Monte  Carlo,  a  peculiar  stress  on  the  name  of  the 
Mecca  of  gamblers,  which  struck  Drake  with  force 
and  caused  him  some  uneasiness.  He  was  sure  that 
he  alone  knew  the  true  story  of  Mrs.  Kembleton's 


138  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

husband  and  the  suicide.  His  knowledge  of  it  all  was 
so  precious  to  him  that  since  the  night  he  met  Gower 
and  Lexham  at  Guarini's  dive  he  frequently  rehearsed 
in  the  privacy  of  his  room  the  whole  affair  lest  he 
should  forget  the  smallest  detail.  He  was  aware  that 
many  of  his  acquaintances  knew  that  he  was  on  the 
spot  when  the  tragedy  occurred,  and  that  even  if  he 
had  not  been  an  eye-witness,  still,  he  knew  much  more 
than  the  newspapers  and  the  gossips  of  the  time  had 
published  and  whispered.  Drake  did  not  like  the  ex- 
pression of  assurance  on  his  fat  friend's  face,  at  which 
he  flashed  swift,  angry  glances;  and  a  feeling  of  dis- 
trust led  him  to  imagine  D'Erblet  was  cognizant  of 
some  of  the  facts,  but  how  much  D'Erblet  really  knew 
puzzled  Drake.  He  became  unduly  exasperated  at  his 
own  absurd  exuberance,  and  soon  began  to  regret  his 
over-confidence  and  want  of  discretion.  He  felt  he 
could  not  leave  D'Erblet  until  he  ascertained  what  he 
knew.  That  another  should  in  any  way  share  the 
secret  with  him  belittled  that  sense  of  proprietorship 
which  had  been  to  him  sometimes  more  stimulating 
than  brandy. 

"  Did  you  know  her  before  she  lost  her  voice  ?" 
Silde  asked. 

"  Know  her !"  D'Erblet  repeated,  "  why,  I  was  in 
the  orchestra  that  last  night  she  appeared  on  the  stage. 
From  my  desk  I  could  see  her  desperate  efforts  to 
sing,  and  was  the  first  to  realise  her  distress  and  tell 
Geritello,  the  conductor,  that  the  curtain  should  be 
lowered?" 

"  What  had  happened  ?"   Silde  inquired. 

"  On  that  evening  before  she  left  her  hotel  to  go  to 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  139 

the  opera-house  a  man  shot  himself  at  her  bedroom 
door." 

"  But  surely  that  was  no  reason  why  she  should  lose 
her  voice." 

"  No,  perhaps  not ;  but  she  was  terribly  agitated 
and  overwrought  when  she  reached  her  dressing- 
room. 

Drake  with  a  wild  anxiety  watched  D'Erblet's  face, 
and  listened  to  every  word  which  fell  from  his  lips. 
A  smile  gradually  began  to  relieve  the  strained  anx- 
ious look  on  his  face,  and  now  a  feeling  of  confidence 
in  himself  relaxed  the  tension  under  which  his  nerves 
and  brain  had  suffered  so  keenly  a  few  moments  before. 
He  now  felt  sure  that  D'Erblet  knew  no  more  than  the 
newspapers  had  recounted  at  the  time,  yet,  he  did  not 
like  D'Erblet  for  having  been  an  eye-witness  of  what 
had  that  night  occurred  on  the  stage. 

"  I  think  there  must  have  been  some  other  reason 
for  her  losing  her  voice,"  said  Silde  in  his  slow  but 
emphatic  manner  of  speaking,  a  manner  which  was 
peculiar  to  himself,  and  gave  one  the  impression  that 
he  was  not  only  speaking  what  he  was  deeply  thinking, 
but  at  the  same  time  reading  what  was  going  on  in  the 
listener's  mind.  The  multiplicity  of  ideas  never  seemed 
to  bewilder  Silde.  He  argued  with  the  same  perti- 
nacity and  thoroughness  of  reasoning  which  he  always 
devoted  to  the  intricacies  of  an  orchestral  score. 

"  Some  other  reason?"  said  Drake  in  a  tone  of  in- 
quiry. 

:<  Yes.  Who  was  the  man  found  at  her  bedroom 
door?"  Silde  murmured. 

Drake  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  rubbed  his  chin  with 


140  MADAME    BOHEMIA1 

the  back  of  his  hand,  and  made  a  moue,  which  ex- 
pressed botH  dubiety  and  indifference. 

"  Oh,  the  man  was  a  gambler  who  had  lost  all  his 
money,"  D'Erblet  said,  and  added,  "  he  was  a  friend  of 
Mrs.  Kembleton's  husband.  Some  said  he  had  gone 
to  her  husband  to  borrow  a  large  amount,  but  in  this 
he  failed,  and  had  no  other  avenue  of  escape  but  sui- 
cide." 

"  Yes ;  still  that  is  no  reason  why  she  should  lose 
her  voice,"  Silde  reiterated. 

"  You  forget  the  man  shot  himself  at  her  bedroom 
"door,"  D'Erblet  interposed. 

"  No,  I  don't  forget.  Why  did  he  select  that  spot 
of  all  places  in  Monte  Carlo?" 

Drake  did  not  like  this  questioning  and  began  to 
fidget  nervously.  "  I  suppose  a  man  can  please  himself 
where  he  parts  with  his  soul.  If  I  wished  to  rid  my- 
self of  all  the  burdens  of  to-morrows  why  shouldn't 
I  take  this  knife  and  walk  to  yonder  woman's  side,  that 
beautiful  creature  facing  Gower,  and  plunge  this  unro- 
mantic  weapon  into  my  heart?"  Drake  said.  His 
tone  and  demeanour  were  marked  by  an  irritability 
which  his  friends  could  not  understand. 

"  There  may  be  no  reason  why  you  should  wish  to 
do  so,  but  there  are  many  reasons  why  we  should  do 
all  in  our  power  to  prevent  such  an  outrage,"  Silde 
retorted  with  some  emphasis. 

"  The  deuce !  Proprieties  be  damned.  I'm  a  free 
agent.  I  agree  with  Baudelaire,  and  on  the  point  of 
man's  right  of  going  hence  he  was  particularly  sane. 
Of  course  you  may  have  the  right  to  restrict  my  choice 
of  spot  for  such  an  act,  but  though  inconvenience  may 


MADAME   BOHEMIA  141 

be  the  result,  a  man  in  his  last  act  on  earth  should  surely 
have  a  right  to  seek  the  conditions  that  suit  himself." 

"Bosh!"  D'Erblet  growled.  "If  a  lunatic  can't 
wait  till  death  comes  along  in  a  natural  manner " 

"  With  a  doctor  and  an  undertaker  on  each  si'de," 
Drake  put  in  with  a  derisive  leer. 

D'Erblet  was  confounded,  and  in  his  annoyance  he 
could  not  pick  up  the  thread  of  his  speech,  which  Drake 
had  so  rudely  broken. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  a  man  must  neces- 
sarily be  a  lunatic  to  commit  suicide?  Why,  D'Erblet, 
I'm  sure  you  will  find  that  it  is  only  the  gentleman  of 
meagre  intellect  who  fears  to  do  so,  the  man  who  takes 
a  salutary  interest  in  life  only  because  he  fears  death, 
the  man  who  dies  in  bed  from  disease  and  frequently 
has  to  endure  before  release  such  tortures  as  Societies 
for  the  Prevention  of  Cruelty  to  Animals  won't  tolerate 
in  quadrupeds — even  for  the  advancement  of  science." 

Drake  was  delighted,  and  now  that  he  thought  he  had 
so  dexterously  led  his  friends  from  the  former  discus- 
sion of  Mrs.  Kembleton's  affair  at  Monte  Carlo,  he  gave 
himself  up  to  teasing  D'Erblet  with  an  ardour  which 
impressed  Silde  so  much  that  he  doubted  whether  Drake 
was  in  earnest  or  merely  having  fun  with  D'Erblet. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  infer  that  a  man  is  a  lunatic  to 
suffer  from  a  painful  illness?"  D'Erblet  cried,  now 
absurdly  irate  and  hopelessly  confused. 

Drake  and  Silde  burst  into  hearty  laughter,  which 
so  surprised  D'Erblet  that  he  stared  in  silence  for  a  few 
moments,  doubtful  of  the  cause  of  their  hilarity. 

"  Bah !  I've  no  patience  with  such  notions,"  D'Erblet 
said  indignantly  and  with  much  spluttering. 


142  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

"  Now  do  be  reasonable,"  Drake  said,  with  a  solemn 
face.  "  Suppose  I  wish  to  end  my  life  to-night,  and 
should  decide  to  go  hence  to  the  accompaniment  of 
wild  strains  of  weird  music.  Would  you  be  so  churl- 
ish as  to  turn  me  out  of  your  house  because  I  might 
wish  to  execute  devilish  gyrations  on  the  top  of  your 
piano  while  you  thumped  the  '  Mephisto  Waltz,'  and 
then  finally  before  your  benign  countenance  to  end  the 
dance  and  my  life  with  a  bare  bodkin?" 

D'Erblet's  face  was  a  study.  Amazement,  in- 
credulity, and  bewilderment  passed  across  his  ample 
features  as  shadows  move  in  a  garden  on  a  breezy 
moonlight  night. 

Silde  shook  with  unexploded  laughter,  but  Drake 
held  his  countenance,  and  with  mock  solemnity  waited 
for  D'Erblet  to  reply.  Suddenly  the  expression  on 
D'Erblet's  face  changed  to  one  of  startled  surprise, 
and  for  a  moment  his  eyes  were  fixed  on  Drake,  whose 
head  was  turned  from  Silde,  who  had  not  ceased  laugh- 
ing. 

D'Erblet  arose,  and  quickly  gathered  his  parcels, 
hat,  and  umbrella.  "  Victor,"  he  cried  to  the  waiter, 
"  my  bill." 

"Are  you  going?"  Silde  asked,  surprised  to  see 
D'Erblet  struggling  into  his  overcoat. 

"Going?  Heavens,  yes,  I  should  say  so,"  he  re- 
plied in  rather  a  frightened  tone,  as  Silde  thought. 

The  waiter  gave  the  bill,  and  while  D'Erblet  waited 
for  his  change  he  cast  another  furtive  glance  at  Drake, 
in  whose  eyes  there  was  a  wicked  gleam.  A  malicious 
grin  distorted  his  fine  mouth.  He  did  not  seem  to 
notice  anything  or  to  heed  D'Erblet's  glances.  The 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  143 

waiter  brought  the  change,  and  in  another  moment  the 
parting  guest  was  hurrying  down  the  stairs. 

What  had  startled  D'Erblet?  Why  did  he  fly 
from  a  scene  where  a  few  minutes  before  some  ex- 
aggerated but  good-natured  raillery  on  a  serious  topic 
had  taken  place?  Silde  was  sure  D'Erblet  looked 
scared,  to  say  the  least,  but  he  knew  of  no  reason  for 
such  a  sudden  change  and  for  so  hasty  a  leave-taking. 

"  Hum !  He  is  vexed,  Drake,"  said  Silde,  but  his 
companion  did  not  turn  to  him  or  speak. 

"  What  a  strange  look  there  is  in  that  man's  eyes !" 
said  Mrs.  Laird  to  Gower,  who  had,  now  that  D'Erblet 
was  gone,  an  unbroken  view  of  Drake.  Gower  turned 
and  looked.  In  rapt  attention  he  held  his  eyes  steadily 
on  Drake,  then  he  rose,  crossed  the  room,  nodded  to 
Silde,  and  said,  "  Drake,  are  you  ill  ?" 

"  No,"  said  Drake,  in  a  pitiful  tone,  "  no,  but  I've 
forgotten  the  name  of  the  man  who  shot  himself  at  her 
bedroom  door." 

Gower  shrank  back  in  indignant  surprise. 

"  What  was  his  name  ?  Ssh !  Whisper  it.  Don't 
let  anyone  hear  it.  No  one  but  me,"  he  almost  whined. 
All  the  assertive,  arrogant  Drake  was  gone,  and  now  he 
seemed  like  a  sick  child,  tired,  wearily  crying  for  a 
lost  toy. 

Silde  had  watched  the  scene,  since  Gower  reached  the 
table,  in  sorrow  and  alarm.  He  placed  his  hand  on 
Drake's  arm  and  looked  into  his  eyes,  which  could  see 
nothing  tangible;  their  focusses  seemed  to  diverge 
and  reach  infinity.  Tears  swam  in  Silde's  eyes  as  he 
turned  and  looked  at  the  astounded  Gower. 

"  Tell  me  his  name !"  cried  Drake,  "  tell  me !"    Sud- 


144  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

denly  he  seemed  to  recognise  Gower.  He  jumped  up, 
leaned  forward,  and  peered  into  Gower's  startled  face, 
then  with  a  wild  laugh  he  turned  and  exclaimed, 
"  Gower !  just  the  very  man  who  doesn't  know." 
Another  weird  laugh  and  down  the  stairs  he  rushed  in 
mad  haste. 

"What  is  it?  What  is  the  matter  with  him?" 
Gower  asked.  "Is  he  mad?" 

"  No,  not  insane.  He  frequently  suffers  from  fits 
of  morbidity.  I  had  no  idea  he  was  so  far  gone," 
Silde  remarked.  "  He  has  been  quite  rational  for 
three  months,  working  steadily  and  soberly  on  one  of 
the  weekly  papers.  I  didn't  know  till  to-day  that  he 
knew  you." 

"  Yes,  I  knew  him  when  I  was  a  boy.  I've  seen  him 
only  once  since  then.  He  behaved  strangely,"  said 
Gower,  who  had  not  quite  recovered  his  composure. 

Some  time  before  D'Erblet  left  the  room  many  of  the 
afternoon  loungers  had  taken  their  leave,  and  only 
one  other  man  was  present  when  Drake  broke  the 
,'silence  by  his  wild  laugh  and  mad  rush  down  the  stairs. 

Gower  rejoined  Mrs.  Laird,  and  they  soon  left  the 
cafe.  Silde  picked  up  an  evening  paper  and  began 
to  read,  when  the  man  from  a  table  near  that  at  which 
Mrs.  Laird  and  Gower  had  been  sitting  came  across  the 
room  and  sat  down  on  a  chair  opposite  Silde. 

"  Pardon  me,  Mr.  Silde,  was  the  man  who  sat  here 
Richard  Drake?"  he  asked. 

"  Yes,"  Silde  answered,  good-humouredly.  People 
who  knew  him  by  sight  often  stopped  him  on  the  street 
and  spoke  to  him.  There  was  something  inviting  in 
his  manner. 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  145 

i 

"  Well,  I  should  like  to  know  his  address,"  said  the 
stranger,  "  for  I've  got  some  work  for  him.  I  don't 
know  that  he  wants  any,  but  if  he  is  the  same  Dick 
Drake  I  knew  eight  or  ten  years  ago,  a  remunerative 
job  might  do  him  some  good.  My  name  is  Windham, 
of  Blackstons',  the  publishers." 

"Ah,  I  don't  know  where  he  is  to  be  found.  He 
sometimes  comes  to  my  house.  Let  me  think.  Yes, 
he  used  to  live  somewhere  on  Sixth  Avenue,  near  Tenth 
or  Eleventh  Street." 

"Just  the  same  wandering  customer,  I  suppose," 
said  Windham,  sorrowfully  shaking  his  head.  "  I  did 
not  notice  him  till  he  turned  on  that  gentleman  who 
was  with  the  lady.  I  didn't  like  his  laugh.  He  some- 
times laughed  like  that  when  I  knew  him  years  ago. 
Does  he  hit  the  pipe?" 

"  Hit  the  pipe,"  Silde  repeated,  not  catching  the 
meaning  of  a  once  familiar  phrase. 

"  Smoke  opium,  I  mean.  He  was  addicted  to  that 
means  of  temporary  oblivion.  Brandy  was  also  a  pet 
solution  of  his  troubles.  He  could  drink  brandy  as 
if  it  were  common  lager  beer.  Everybody  liked  Drake. 
We  published  one  of  his  short  stories  in  one  of  our 
magazines.  Many  said  it  was  one  of  Edgar  Allan 
Poe's  lost  stories.  Well,  it  was  quite  in  Poe's  best, 
and  for  horror  *  The  Murders  in  the  Rue  Morgue' 
could  not  be  compared  to  it.  It  was  a  marvellous  bit 
of  the  arabesque.  He  has  done  nothing  worth  men- 
tioning since  he  sprang  that  devilish  horror  on  the 
public  ten  years  ago." 

"Ah,  I  did  not  know  he  had  published  tales,"  said 
Silde,  now  deeply  interested  in  Windham's  story  of 

10 


146  MADAME    BOHEMIA1 

Drake.  "  He  has  often  told  me  he  was  writing,  or 
thinking  of  writing  some  short  stories,  but  of  late  I 
have  been  thinking  he  meant  long  stories.  Poor  fel- 
low, I  like  him  so  much." 

"  Yes,  it  is  a  great  pity,"  said  Windham,  rising  and 
taking  a  card  from  his  pocket-book.  "  Will  you  kindly 
give  him  this  and  tell  him  I  shall  be  glad  to  see  him, 
if  he  will  look  me  up,  or  send  an  address  where  I  may 
see  him?  I'm  afraid  he's  breaking  up.  Good-night. 
If  I  find  a  copy  of  that  short  story  of  Drake's  I'll  send 
it  to  you.  Good-night." 

"Afraid  he's  breaking  up"  Silde  murmured  to  him- 
self. Could  it  be  possible  that  the  young  man  who  had 
so  often  caused  him  to  laugh  till  he  had  been  obliged 
to  leave  the  room  to  get  out  of  earshot  was  now  in 
the  toils  of  lunacy?  No,  no,  not  that  bright,  happy 
fellow  who  scorned  to  mention  the  deprivations  he 
suffered.  He  was  not  well.  A  temporary  indisposition 
which  required  only  care  and  rest. 

What  a  world  of  surprises!  he  thought,  as  he  sat 
alone  in  that  room  where  he  met  so  many  young  men 
of  great  repute.  Little  did  he  think  at  that  time  how 
sudden  would  be  his  own  last  summons.  One  evening 
in  a  March  to  come  he  would  leave  that  room  never 
to  return,  and  die  just  as  his  best  years  were  beginning. 
Die  just  as  he  was  realising  one  of  his  great  ambitions. 
Die  on  the  scene  of  many  of  his  proudest  triumphs. 
Pass  quickly  away  in  the  heart  of  the  city  which  loved 
him  so  well,  leaving  sorrowing  thousands  to  mourn 
his  irreparable  loss,  the  master,  conductor,  and  man ! 


CHAPTER   XII 

WHEN  Drake  left  the  cafe  he  crossed  Broadway 
and  went  west.  The  evening  was  fast  deepening  and 
people  were  hurrying  to  their  homes.  The  great  stores 
were  closing,  and  many  sounds  of  delight  rose  from 
the  crowds  of  liberated  men,  women,  boys,  and  girls, 
glad  once  more  to  breathe  the  fresh  and  precious  air. 
Drake  rushed  on  past  the  employes'  entrance  of  a  great 
dry-goods  store.  His  head  was  thrust  far  forward, 
the  strange  light  which  had  so  shocked  D'Erblet  shone 
in  his  eyes;  his  hands  were  clasped  upon  his  breast, 
and  in  an  audible  voice  he  spoke  many  surnames. 

"  Holden !  Cassett !  Telford !  Cas — no,  no,  Olden- 
burg !  no !  His  name !"  Making  many  vain  attempts 
to  regain  the  lost  name  he  sped  on,  on  to  no  definite 
place. 

The  throng  of  employes  parted  and  left  a  narrow 
lane  down  the  centre  of  the  footpath.  Some  were 
startled  by  his  strange  appearance,  others  more  robust 
in  health  laughed  at  him,  and  a  gang  of  urchins  at  his 
heels  chanted  "Jones,  Smith,  Brown,"  and  many 
other  common  names  which  their  fresh  wits  readily 
supplied.  Drake  heeded  them  not,  for  there  was  some- 
thing damnable  urging  him  on.  The  name,  the  name 
of  the  dead  man  whose  memory  he  had  for  so  long 
cherished.  The  name  he  had  so  often  spoken  only 
to  earless  things  and  illimitable  space.  The  name  of 
all  names  unforgetable.  What!  had  memory  played 
him  so  ill  a  turn  as  to  let  that  name  stray  beyond  recall  ? 

147 


148  MADAME    BOHEMIA1 

The  more  he  exerted  his  faculties,  the  longer  he  strove 
to  visualise  the  scenes  in  which  the  owner  of  the  lost 
name  once  moved,  the  greater  became  his  distress,  and 
a  sudden  thought  that  the  name  would  never  occur 
again  to  him  made  the  half-crazed  fellow  almost 
yell. 

"  Old,— Old !    Muncaster !    Caster !  no,  no!" 

For  a  moment  he  stopped  and  the  following  crowd 
gathered  round  him.  He  threw  back  his  head  and 
stared  wildly  at  the  western  sky.  The  last  faint  gleams 
of  day  were  almost  gone.  The  dark  clouds  of  night 
were  fast  gathering. 

"  D'Erblet!  Does  He  know?  AH,  the  sly  devil,  of 
course  he  knows.  Gower  doesn't;  no,  no,  Gower 
doesn't!" 

A  smile  came  as  a  new  name  for  a  moment  lightened 
his  mind. 

"  Newcastle !"  he  cried  in  triumph. 

"  No,  no !  Curse  the  fiend !  The  mocking  thief  of 
memory !"  he  yelled,  lost  in  dreadful  anger.  Back  fell 
the  crowd,  which  by  this  time  had  gathered  numbers 
of  curious  men.  Some  looked  up  and  down  the  street, 
but  no  policeman  was  in  sight.  No  one  dared  ap- 
proach Drake.  At  a  safe  distance  the  crowd  had 
formed  a  circle  round  him.  No  one  laughed.  The 
frightened  throng  was  appalled  at  the  fury  of  his  mad- 
ness. 

An  old  man  of  quite  threescore  years  and  ten,  ac- 
companied by  a  beautiful  girl  of  about  seventeen,  drew 
near  just  when  Drake  yelled  "  Newcastle."  Pushing 
gently  through  the  crowd  the  old  man  and  his  com- 
panion gained  Drake's  side. 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  149 

"  Alice,"  said  the  old  man,  addressing  the  girl,  "  the 
poor  fellow  is  in  great  distress."  Then  he  laid  his  hand 
upon  Drake's  arm.  "  Come  with  me,"  he  said  in  a 
voice  full  of  pity  and  gentleness. 

Drake  looked  at  the  kind  old  man  and  shook  his 
head,  with  a  hopeless  expression  on  his  furrowed  face. 
Again  he  looked  earnestly  at  the  gentle  figure  before 
him.  The  pitiful  look  in  the  young  girl's  face  was 
ineffably  tender. 

"  Grandfather,  he  did  not  understand  you,"  she 
said,  without  taking  her  eyes  off  Drake,  who  was  now 
quiet.  "  Ask  him  again  to  come  with  us."  Then  she 
leaned  forward  to  catch  Drake's  eye,  and  said,  "  Will 
you  come  home  with  us  ?" 

Drake  turned  his  head,  looked  at  the  girl,  and 
started.  He  did  not  know  he  really  saw  in  her  sweet 
countenance  the  lineaments  of  the  dead  man's  face. 
Again  he  started  and  trembled,  tried  to  speak,  then 
passed  his  hand  across  his  brow. 

"  No,  no,  not  that.  His  name.  I  know  his  face," 
he  said  in  a  melancholy  tone. 

"  What  name?"  the  old  man  asked. 

"  Cas ! — Cas ! — Old !"  his  voice  then  sank  to  an  in- 
coherent mumble.  In  wonderment  the  girl  and  her 
grandfather  looked  at  each  other. 

"  Old ! — Oh,  that  name !"  Drake  cried  aloud. 

"  Can  he  be  possibly  thinking  of  our  name?"  mur- 
mured the  old  man.  He  turned  to  Drake  and  said, 
"  Are  you  thinking  of  Oldcastle?" 

"  Oldcastle !"  Drake  yelled  in  terrible  ecstasy,  and 
with  a  frightful  laugh  darted  through  the  startled 
crowd,  which  fell  back,  stumbling  and  struggling  in 


150  MADAME   BOHEMIA 

fear.    Before  they  could  collect  their  wits  Drake  was 
lost  to  view. 

Adam  Oldcastle  stood  fully  five  feet  ten  inches  in 
height.  The  bitter  disappointments  of  a  long  life  had 
not  left  a  visible  mark  upon  him.  His  sorrows  had 
been  many,  but  Alice,  his  fair  grandchild,  had  softened 
the  heart  which  he  once  thought  would  turn  to  stone. 
After  he  recovered  from  the  shock  of  Drake's  ecstatic 
yell  of  delight,  he  took  Alice's  arm  in  his  and  started 
to  move  away  from  the  bewildered  throng.  They 
walked  along  in  silence,  and  passed  along  Fifth  Avenue 
towards  Washington  Square. 

"  It  is  very  strange,"  Oldcastle  remarked,  "  very 
strange.  I  never  saw  him  before.  If  I  had  ever 
known  him  I  shouldn't  forget  his  face.  Why  should 
our  name  be  the  cause  of  his  distress  ?" 

"  He  seemed  to  be  trying  to  remember  it.  I  wonder 
who  he  is?"  Alice  murmured,  as  she  assisted  her 
grandfather  up  the  steps  of  a  fine  old  house  which 
overlooked  the  Square  and  Fifth  Avenue. 

Adam  Oldcastle,  publisher  and  printer,  one  of  the 
best-known  men  in  the  trade,  began  his  business  of 
publishing  religious  and  philosophical  works  when  this 
present  century  was  completing  its  fiftieth  year.  No 
man  was  more  highly  esteemed,  and  by  his  intimates 
loved,  than  Adam.  During  the  sixties  and  seventies 
his  firm  rose  to  rank  with  the  largest  business  houses 
of  its  kind,  but  the  financial  prosperity  of  his  house 
did  not  interest  him  so  much  as  did  the  increase  of 
good  work  which  he  loved  to  see  his  presses  yield. 
That  the  books  he  published  were  widely  read  and 
carried  their  earnest  purposes  abroad,  reaching  the 


MADAME   BOHEMIA  151 

hearts  of  people,  and  leaving  lasting  impressions  of 
good,  pleased  him  above  all  things  else.  To  excellent 
purposes  he  put  the  vast  sums  of  money  his  thriving 
business  yielded;  and  though  he  was  considered  a 
very  wealthy  man,  he  was,  in  fact,  only  moderately 
rich,  for  he  was  always  glad  to  help  his  fellow-men, — 
many  times  when  the  petitioner  for  help  was  by  no 
means  worthy. 

Adam  had  one  child, — a  son.  He  was  the  man 
whose  name  Drake  was  so  desperately  trying  to  re- 
member when  Alice  and  her  grandfather  came  upon 
him  in  his  mad  distress. 

Alice  was  the  motherless  child  of  Adam's  only  son. 

Gower  and  Elinor  were  not  the  only  persons  in  that 
drama  which  so  fascinated  Drake,  the.  details  of  which 
he  hoarded  in  his  poor  unbalanced  mind  as  no  miser 
ever  cherished  gold.  No,  Elinor  and  her  adopted  son 
were  not  the  only  persons  who,  according  to  Drake, 
"  did  not  really  know  the  facts."  To  others  quite  as 
closely  connected  with  the  principal  actors  as  were 
Gower  and  Elinor  much  lay  in  the  dreadful  shadow  of 
mystery. 

Had  Drake  known  he  was  looking  upon  the  father 
and  the  daughter  of  the  man  whose  name  they  restored 
to  his  mind  he  would  perhaps  have  left  the  spot  hope- 
lessly mad,  and  then  time  would  not  have  brought  the 
hour  when  enlightenment  dissipated  the  shadows  from 

many  hearts  and  minds. 

******** 

It  was  long  past  midnight  when  Drake  reeled  down 
a  dark  passage  which  led  to  the  entrances  of  several 
houses  that,  over  small  shops,  fronted  on  Sixth  Ave- 


152  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

nue.  At  the  end  of  that  passage  was  a  door  leading 
to  the  staircase  up  which  Drake  had  to  climb  to  reach 
his  two  garret  rooms.  Thomas  Paulton,  the  pro- 
prietor of  the  grocer's  shop  below,  occupied  four  rooms 
and  let  those  on  the  floor  above  to  Drake.  The  grocer 
was  a  fat,  jolly  fellow,  and,  in  many  ways,  one  of 
Nature's  own,  but  his  wife,  poor  woman !  was  a  great 
invalid  and  a  very  impatient  sufferer. 

"  Tom,"  said  Mrs.  Paulton,  nudging  her  snoring 
spouse,  "  Mr.  Drake's  not  in  yet,  so  you  needn't  make 
up  your  mind  to  go  right  off  to  sleep."  Another 
nudge  she  gave  Tom.  "  Did  you  hear  me,  Tom  Paul- 
ton?" 

"  Eh  ?  My  dear,  cough  bad,  eh  ?  Medicine.  Right 
you  are.  Fast  asleep.  Very  tired,  Jane.  We'll  soon 
stop  that  cough,"  Paulton  grunted  in  fits  and  starts, 
struggling  to  rouse  himself. 

"  Cough,  no.  You  do  go  on  so  if  anybody  wakes 
you  up,"  said  his  wife  in  a  grieved  tone. 

"  Why,  my  dear,  what's  the  matter,  eh  ?"  he  asked, 
turning  over  and  seeing  his  wife  sitting  up  in  the  bed. 

"  I  say  that  Mr.  Drake's  not  in  yet.  You  do  take 
so  much  telling,  Tom,"  she  said,  in  a  nagging  way. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Drake  not  in,  eh  ?  Wonder  what's  hap- 
pened to  him.  He's  been  very  reg'lar  of  late.  Hush !" 

They  listened  for  a  few  moments,  then  looked  in- 
quiringly at  each  other. 

"  Did  you  hear  anything?"   she  asked. 

"  No,  but  I  thought  I  did.  Sounded  like  something 
bumping  against  the  door,"  Paulton  muttered,  and 
yawned. 

"There  you  go,  startling  me  again.     You  don't 


MADAME   BOHEMIA!  153 

care  if  I  die  at  any  minute,  and  sitting  up  in  bed,  too," 
she  feebly  snarled. 

"  Oh,  Jane,  dear,  how  can  you  say  such  cruel  things  ? 
What  would  become  o'  me  if  you  was  to  go  first,  I 
should  like  to  know  ?"  said  Paulton,  genuinely  grieved 
at  his  wife's  remark. 

"  Marry  one  o'  them  good-looking  young  women 
you're  so  nice  about  serving.  Never  mind,  Tom,  I 
know  I'm  a  burden  on  you ;  never  mind,  though.  But 
there  was  a  time  when  you  had  only  eyes  for  me,  and 
then  you  wouldn't  have  gone  off  to  sleep  and  left  me 
sitting  up  beside  you  waiting  to  hear  the  lodger  come 
in,"  she  whined  till  a  fit  of  coughing  shook  her  frail 
form. 

Paulton  got  out  of  bed  and  gave  her  a  dose  of  physic, 
all  the  time  muttering  many  terms  of  endearment. 

"  Tom,  that — Mr.  Drake — must  go,  for — we  can't 
have — him  any  longer,"  she  said,  in  gasps,  after  the 
coughing  had  stopped. 

"  Very  well,  my  dear.  We've  had  him  six  years 
off  and  on  like,  and  if  he  did  let  money  matters  fall 
back  a  bit,  he  always  paid  us  up ;  but  just  as  you  say, 
Jane,  dear,  if  he's  got  to  go — well,  if  he's  got  to  go—- 
he's got  to,  that's  all,"  Paulton  stammered,  and  tried 
to  hide  a  rather  long  face  from  his  wife. 

"  He  scares  me,  Tom.  I  can't  abide  his  always 
talking  to  himself.  He  isn't  safe,  Tom  Paulton,"  she 
said. 

Paulton  stood  at  the  side  of  the  bed  and  scratched 
his  head,  but  could  not  find  anything  to  say  in  refuta- 
tion. 

"  Well,  of  course,"  Paulton  drawled,  "  I  know  he's 


154  MADAME   BOHEMIA! 

not  always  clear-headed,  but  he'll  never  do  any  harm, 
my  dear;  he'll  never  be  worse  than  he  was  four  years 
back." 

"  Never  be  worse  ?  I  should  hope  not,  Tom  Paul- 
ton.  Anyway,  not  in  this  house  while  I'm  alive,"  said 
his  wife,  with  an  emphatic  gesture  and  a  knowing  shake 
of  her  head.  "  What  you  see  in  him  to  care  for  beats 
me." 

"  It's  not  that,  Jane.  You  see,  if  he  goes  from  here 
he'll  never  be  able  to  finish  his  great  long  book  on  which 
he's  always  writing,  morning,  noon,  and  night,"  Paul- 
ton  remarked,  and  tried  to  look  befittingly  serious  upon 
the  subject  of  Drake's  work. 

"  Why,  what  book's  that?"  she  asked,  with  a  sneer. 

"  I  think  he  calls  it "  Tom  cleared  his  throat  and 

lifted  up  his  shoulders  for  the  effort.  "  It's  'A  Com- 
pendium of  Useful  Axioms  and  Excerpts  from  the 
Oblivious  Literature  of  the  Anthropophagi.' ' 

"  Well,  if  you're  going  to  let  him  stay  here  till  he 
finishes  that  you'll  be  beyond  collecting  his  rent  in  this 
side  of  Jordan,"  interposed  the  surprised  woman,  who 
could  hardly  repress  a  faint  smile  of  admiration  at  her 
husband's  heroic  efforts  in  pronunciation. 

"  Hush,  Jane !"  said  Paulton,  throwing  his  head  on 
one  side.  "  There !  I'm  sure  I  heard  someone  bump 
against  our  door  in  the  passage."  Paulton  slipped  on 
his  trousers  and  a  coat.  "  I'll  go  down  and  see  if  he's 
forgotten  he  has  his  keys  in  his  pocket.  Don't  be 
scared,  Jane,  I'll  be  beside  you  in  a  minute." 

Paulton  took  a  lighted  candle  and  went  downstairs. 
The  door  opened  out  from  the  bottom  step.  It  was  an 
awkward  arrangement,  for  one  had  to  stoop  to  turn  the 


MADAME    BOHEMIA1  155 

knob.  As  Tom  stooped  he  heard  sounds  of  heavy 
breathing.  He  tried  to  push  open  the  door,  but  some 
obstacle  was  against  it.  Setting  the  candle  down  on 
a  step  above  the  height  of  his  head,  Paulton  got  closer 
to  the  door,  and  placed  his  feet  on  the  last  step.  At 
first  gently,  then  with  increasing  strength,  he  pushed 
the  door  open  some  four  or  five  inches,  but  fearing 
either  to  damage  the  obstacle  without,  or  strain  the 
light  hinges  of  the  door,  for  a  moment  or  two  he  relin- 
quished his  efforts.  When  he  peered  through  the 
opening,  nothing  but  impenetrable  darkness  was  seen 
in  the  passage.  Keeping  his  shoulder  against  the  door, 
he  kneeled;  shooting  his  fat  arm  out,  he  groped  in 
the  gloom  with  his  hand,  which  struck  a  pair  of  shoes, 
toes  up. 

"Ah,  he's  sitting  down  in  the  corner  with  his  back 
against  the  hinges,"  Tom  muttered.  "  I'll  have  to  give 
him  a  bit  of  a  squeeze,"  he  said,  with  a  sad  shake  of 
his  head,  after  a  vain  attempt  to  pull  Drake  by  his  feet 
out  of  the  corner. 

Rising  from  his  cramped  position,  Paulton  pushed 
with  more  force,  and  wriggled  himself  through  a  space 
of  twelve  or  fifteen  inches,  then  tripped  and  stumbled 
against  the  opposite  wall.  Bang  slammed  the  door 
as  soon  as  Tom  lost  his  hold.  It  was  quite  a  minute 
before  Paulton  realised  his  plight.  He  was  shut  out 
with  Drake.  Suddenly  he  remembered  that  only  his 
wife  was  in  the  house. 

"  Damn  the  luck !"  he  muttered;  "  poor  Jane'll  have 
to  come  down." 

Then  he  thought  it  was  quite  possible  to  find  Drake's 
latch-key  in  his  pocket.  Leaning  over  the  sound 


I5'6  MADAME   BOHEMIA! 

sleeper,  Paulton  got  a  stifling  whiff  of  his  lodger's 
breath,  strong  with  alcohol. 

"  Drunk,  eh  ?"  the  good-natured  grocer  murmured. 
"  I  shall  have  to  carry  him  up."  Then  he  began  to 
search  Drake's  pockets  for  the  key.  This  he  had  much 
difficulty  in  doing,  and  only  by  rolling  the  drunken 
fellow  flat  over  could  Tom  get  his  hands  into  the  hip- 
pockets  of  his  lodger's  trousers.  A  flash  of  light  from 
close  behind  Paulton  illumined  him  and  Drake  just  as 
he  succeeded  in  getting  his  hand  into  a  pocket. 

"  What's  this  ?"  said  a  rather  Irish  voice  behind  the 
lantern.  Paulton  had  never  been  so  surprised  and 
frightened;  if  a  ball  of  fire  had  dropped  on  Drake's 
head  under  Tom's  highly-coloured  nose  he  could  not 
have  been  half  so  startled.  Stammering  and  splutter- 
ing, the  scared  grocer  tried  to  make  answer,  and  at 
the  same  time  see  the  features  of  the  person  with  the 
lantern. 

"  Oh,  it's  you,  is  it?"  Paulton  said  at  length",  with 
some  distinctness. 

"Yes,  it's  me.  And  who  the  devil  are  you?"  de- 
manded the  policeman,  with  a  policeman's  marvellous 
sagacity  wholly  misconstruing  the  scene  before  him. 

"  Why,  you  know  me,  don't  you  ?"  Paulton  asked  in 
a  very  suspicious  manner.  He  had  not  recovered  from 
the  fright  of  the  unmasked  lantern's  swift  flash.  The 
policeman  was  in  the  passage,  not  attending  to  his 
duty,  when  the  grocer's  door  suddenly  slammed  and 
shut  him  out.  The  noise  at  the  door  startled  the 
policeman;  then  when  he  heard  Tom  muttering,  he 
quietly  approached,  his  sneakers  favouring  the  stealthy 
movement,  and  flashed  his  dark  lantern. 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  157 

"  No,  I  don't  know  you ;  but  I'll  introduce  you  to 
a  gentleman  at  Jefferson  Market  police-court  who'll 
ask  yer  name  and  the  reason  why  you're  going  through 
that  man's  pockets,"  snarled  the  myrmidon  of  law. 

"  I'm  Paulton,  the  grocer,  and  this  is  Mr.  Drake,  my 
lodger,"  said  Tom,  getting  nettled  at  the  policeman's 
hasty  reflection. 

"  None  a'  that  now.  Don't  try  to  pull  my  leg  on 
ye'll  find  it  made  of  lead." 

"  Oh,"  Tom  cried,  "  I  see  you're  not  the  regular 
bobby,  are  you?  This  is  O'Conor's  beat." 

"And  what  if  it  is?  O'Conor's  sick,  and  ye  can't 
gimme  no  bluff  about  bein'  a  very  intimate  friend  of 
his,  for  I'm  not  takin'  no  bluff,"  the  policeman  affirmed, 
with  decision. 

"  I'm  not  bluffing,"  Tom  snapped,  and  raising  his 
voice,  "  I'm  Tom  Paulton."  Then  he  opened  his  coat 
"  See,  I've  got  my  night-shirt  on.  Come  down  to 
let  Mr.  Drake  in  and  the  door  slammed  and  shut  us 
out.  You  saw  me  trying  to  get  his  key  out  of  his 
pocket  so  that  I  could  unlock  the  door  and  not  have  to 
ring  and  fetch  my  wife  down." 

"  Oh,  that's  different,"  said  the  policeman,  as  the 
truth  of  Paulton's  statement  slowly  dawned  on  his 
midnight  intelligence.  "That's  different.  Excuse 
me." 

Tom,  very  vexed  and  disgusted,  turned  to  Drake 
and  produced  the  key,  opened  the  door,  and  tried  to 
rouse  Drake  out  of  his  drunken  stupor.  Alas !  Tom's 
efforts  to  revive  his  lodger's  senses  were  futile.  Drake 
murmured  incoherent  words  and  struggled  in  a  feeble 
way  to  remain  on  the  floor  asleep.  The  long  patient 


I58  MADAME    BOHEMIA1 

'Paulton  began  to  lose  his  temper.  The  draught  from 
the  other  end  of  the  passage  was  extremely  icy,  and 
Tom  felt  the  cold  in  his  bones.  Even  the  warmly-clad 
policeman  began  to  stamp  his  feet  and  make  forcible 
remarks  on  the  weather. 

Paulton  looked  up  the  steep  narrow  staircase  and 
saw  his  wife  descending.  She  was  a  pathetic  figure 
in  her  night-dress.  Her  hair  was  loose,  and  her  neck 
bones  having  long  since  lost  their  covering  of  flesh, 
seemed  to  shine  through  the  almost  transparent  skin. 

"  Tom,  Tom,"  she  cried,  "  what's  the  matter?  I'm 
tired  calling  you.  .Come  to  bed,  do.  I  never  was  so 
scared." 

"  Right,  Jane.  I  locked  myself  out,  and  only  just 
got  Mr.  Drake's  key  out  of  his  pocket  to  open  the  door. 
Go  up,  dear,"  Tom  pleaded,  "  I'll  be  with  you  in  a 
minute.  Don't  stand  there." 

She  turned  and  slowly  passed  up  the  stairs. 

"  Here,  officer,  help  me  to  get  him  on  my  shoulders," 
said  Tom,  taking  hold  of  Drake's  arms.  The  police- 
man soon  had  that  wasted  form  on  the  strong  grocer's 
broad  back. 

"  I'll  follow  you  with  the  candle,"  said  the  police- 
man, picking  it  up  with  one  hand,  while  he  kept  the 
other  on  Drake,  as  they  passed  up.  Drake  was  soon 
deposited  on  his  bed.  Paulton  thanked  the  policeman 
for  his  kind  assistance  and  saw  him  out,  locked  the 
door,  and  rejoined  his  trembling  wife. 


CHAPTER   XIII 

DRAKE'S  rooms  consisted  of  a  kitchen  and  bedroom. 
The  latter  overlooked  Sixth  Avenue,  and  was  a  little 
above  the  level  of  the  Elevated  Railroad.  The  bed 
occupied  more  than  half  the  widest  part  of  the  room; 
it  nearly  fitted  into  an  alcove  formed  by  the  landing 
at  the  top  of  the  staircase.  A  large  kitchen-table  in  the 
opposite  front  corner  left  a  passage  between  it  and  the 
bed  to  the  small  window.  On  the  table  neatly  piled  were 
many  books.  Bundles  of  manuscripts  lay  about  the 
place,  on  and  under  the  table.  In  the  corner  above  the 
table  there  was  an  oil  lamp,  with  a  bright  tin  sKade 
so  tilted  that  it  threw  its  light  on  the  writing-pad,  which 
was  a  gift  from  Mrs.  Kembleton  on  Drake's  twenty- 
second  birthday.  Down  the  centre  of  the  room,  which 
was  more  than  twice  as  long  as  it  was  broad,  were  sus- 
pended from  a  lath  seven  vari-coloured  lamps,  just 
an  inch  or  two  above  Drake's  height.  On  the  wall, 
above  the  head  of  the  bed,  were  two  Algerian  swords 
crossed,  over  which,  perpendicularly,  hung  a  fine  Sebas- 
tian Hernandez  rapier.  Six  curious  oil  paintings,  the 
subjects  of  which  at  close  inspection  were  grossly  re- 
volting, seemed  from  a  distance  of  six  feet  to  be  nothing 
more  than  meaningless  splashes  of  colour.  The  head, 
in  pencil,  of  a  beautiful  woman,  in  a  very  large  finely 
carved  black  oak  frame,  nearly  covered  the  part  of 
the  opposite  wall  above  the  writing-table.  The  ink- 
stand was  a  dragon's  head,  around  which  tongues  of 
flame  in  brass  formed  many  holders  for  pens  of  peculiar 

159 


i6o  MADAME   BOHEMIA1 

design  and  workmanship.  Over  an  old  threadbare 
carpet  lay  a  Bagdhad  rug  of  blood-red  hue.  Red 
curtains  nearly  covered  the  dingy  window.  In  front 
of  a  disused  fireplace  stretched  an  old  sofa,  which  had 
not  since  Drake  occupied  the  place  been  fit  to  sit  upon. 
There  was  a  door  from  the  bedroom  to  the  landing, 
but  the  foot  of  the  bed  prevented  anyone  who  wished 
to  enter  from  without.  It  was  only  to  avoid  the 
woman  who  came  each  morning  to  cook  his  breakfast, 
make  the  bed,  and  set  the  place  straight  that  Drake 
pulled  out  the  bed  and  made  his  exit  by  that  door. 
His  charwoman  was  engaged  because  of  her  notorious 
ugliness.  That  had  been  caused  by  her  husband  mash- 
ing her  face  with  a  bottle  for  trying  to  save  her  son 
from  his  fury.  Her  efforts  had  been  vain,  for  he  was 
hanged  for  filicide.  Drake  was  once  asked  why  he 
had  such  a  woman  about  the  place,  and  he  said  in  reply 
that  no  one  else  would  give  her  a  job.  At  her  hus- 
band's trial  Drake  was  a  reporter  for  a  well-known 
newspaper,  and  after  sentence  on  the  culprit  had  been 
passed,  he  found  the  wretched  man's  wife  and  offered 
her  the  work  of  attending  to  his  small  wants.  This 
she  gladly  accepted,  and  since  then  she  had  been  a  faith- 
ful slave  to  him.  Sometimes  he  used  to  go  into  the 
kitchen  and  speak  to  her,  but  one  morning  she  told 
him  that  she  was  a  very  good-looking  young  woman 
before  she  married.  To  imagine  that  the  mutilated 
face  before  him  was  once  fair  to  look  upon  was  too 
much  for  Drake's  fantasy,  and  since  that  hour  he  had 
studiously  avoided  her.  She  was  never  permitted  to 
enter  the  bedroom  when  he  was  there,  and  when  he 
wished  to  go  into  the  kitchen  he  sent  her  on  some  er- 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  161 

rand,  the  purpose  of  which  he  would  call  out  to  her 
through  the  closed  door  between  the  rooms.  If  he 
thought  there  was  the  slightest  chance  of  meeting  the 
woman  on  the  stairs  or  in  the  passage,  he  would 
tightly  close  his  lids  and  feel  his  way  in  or  out. 

The  woman's  face  had  for  quite  a  year  intermittently 
haunted  Drake,  yet  he  had  not  the  heart  to  discharge 
her.  She  was  a  frightful  sight,  and  he  could  not  over- 
come the  feeling  of  disgust  which  even  the  thought  of 
her  unsightliness  too  frequently  aroused.  At  one  time, 
when  he  first  engaged  her,  he  could  have  looked  at  any 
horror  without  feeling  the  slightest  qualm,  but  brandy 
and  opium  had  wrought  fearful  havoc  with  his  highly 
imaginative  mind.  The  grossest  murder  fascinated 
him  beyond  all  normal  reason.  He  had,  in  fact,  as  a 
reporter  entered  into  the  details,  and  the  solving,  of 
frightful  mysteries  with  a  zest  which  astounded  his 
colleagues  of  the  press.  Many  ominously  shook  their 
heads  and  predicted  a  terrible  end  to  his  career.  That 
he  had  for  so  long  kept  out  of  an  asylum  baffled  the 
minds  of  his  few  friends.  His  enemies  had  long  since 
given  him  up  as  a  vampire  and  as  a  menace  to  all  that 
is  usually  considered  rational.  Many  spoke  of  his 
great  short  story  as  evidence  of  his  saneness,  others 
referred  to  it  as  conclusive  proof  of  his  madness.  He 
was  the  subject  of  many  discussions  and  quarrels,  and 
his  contempt  for  what  he  called  the  mediocrities  earned 
for  him  the  displeasure  of  men  who  had  often  been 
loyal  when  his  arrogance  and  ill-behaviour  had  given 
them  just  cause  for  indignation.  Because  others  could 
not  live  as  he  did,  and  read  and  study  with  his  vora- 
cious persistence,  and  had  not  a  superlatively  tenacious 

ii 


i62  MADAME   BOHEMIA] 

memory  and  his  Swift  reasoning  faculties,  He  rele- 
gated them  to  the  ranks  of  mediocrity,  and  only  some 
brilliant  literary  effort  on  the  part  'of  the  contemned 
could  convince  him  of  his  unreasonable  error  and  fal- 
sity of  judgment.  Such  mistakes  he  was  the  first  to 
condemn  in  others. 

It  was  near  noon  when  Mrs.,  Paulton  heard  Drake 
moving  about  in  the  room  above  her  parlour.  She 
had  passed  a  sleepless  night  coughing  and  bemoaning 
her  fate,  making  her  inconsiderate  lodger  the  cause  of 
all  her  woes,  till  at  last  she  got  her  husband  to  promise 
he  would  tell  Drake  to  vacate  his  rooms  at  the  end 
of  the  week.  Trade  was  bad  with  Paulton,  and  he  could 
ill  afford  to  lose  Drake's  four  dollars  a  week  for  rent, 
still,  he  knew  his  wife  would  not  rest  till  she  saw  and 
heard  the  last  of  the  lodger.  Tom  could  hardly  give  his 
duties  in  the  store  the  little  attention  they  required 
for  thinking  of  the  ordeal  his  wife  had  set  for  him. 

When  he  went  up  to  the  kitchen  for  his  frugal  mid- 
day meal  he  hoped  his  wife  would  have  relented,  but 
her  first  words  were,  "  He's  up,  Tom.  I've  heard  him 
stirring  about." 

"  So  I've  got  to  tell  him,  eh  ?"  Paulton  said  in  a 
low  tone. 

"Yes;  I  can't  abide  him  any  longer.  Why,  even 
that  awful-looking  woman  is  getting  tired  of  him. 
When  she  went  up  this  morning  she  found  he  had 
drawn  her  photograph  on  the  top  of  the  stove  in  the 
kitchen  with  chalk.  He's  even  hurt  her  feelings,  Tom." 

Unfortunately  for  Paulton  he  had  a  mild  sense  of 
humour,  but  not  mild  enough  for  this  absurd  com- 
plaint. He  tried  to  smother  a  laugh  just  as  he  was 


MADAME    BOHEMIA'  163 

swallowing  a  spoonful  of  hot  soup,  but  his  efforts  were 
vain,  and  the  soup  from  the  force  of  the  laugh  squirted 
through  his  few  teeth  and  soiled  a  clean  table-cloth. 
He  shook  and  roared  with  laughter  till  he  caught  his 
wife's  cold  glance.  This  checked  his  hilarity,  and  he 
tried  to  assume  a  rather  sober  expression,  which  did 
not  seem  to  fit  his  jolly  face. 

"  Tom  Paulton,  we've  been  married  twenty-seven1 
years,"  said  the  grocer's  wife  in  a  tone  of  sorrow, 
"  and  this  is  the  first  time  you've  ridiculed  my  feelings. 
I  wouldn't  have  believed  it  possible,  I  wouldn't." 

"  Jane !  Jane !  don't,  dear,  don't  go  on  so,"  Paulton 
cried,  trying  to  catch  his  breath.  "  I  didn't  laugh  at 
you,  indeed,  I  didn't." 

"  Then  what  else  was  there  to  laugh  at,  I  should  like 
to  know?" 

"  Why,  dear,  I  was  laughing  at  Mr.  Drake  trying  to 
draw  the  charwoman's  face  on  the  top  of  his  black 
stove.  Why,  there  isn't  anything  to  draw.  She  hasn't 
got  no  right  eye,  she  hasn't  got  no  nose,  and  I  think 
she's  got  only  one  ear;  besides,  if  anyone  can  call  her 
chin  a  chin,  why,  that  let's  me  out,  for  the  bottom  of 
her  face  is  nothing  with  a  gash  in  it." 

Paulton  found  his  excuse  for  unseemly  laughter  did 
not  have  the  desired  effect. 

"  Go  right  upstairs,  at  once,  and  tell  him  to  clear 
out !"  she  cried,  with  some  anger.  "  Go  on  now.  I'll 
not  eat  another  bite  till  you  do." 

Tom  hesitated ;  for  a  few  moments  he  did  not  seem 
to  realise  that  his  wife  was  in  earnest.  Mrs.  Paulton 
had  many  whims,  which  he  half-humoured  because  of 
her  ill-health,  but  now  he  felt  that  this  was  no  whim 


MADAME    BOHEMIA1 

which  would  soon  pass  and  be  forgotten.  Suddenly 
she  crossed  the  kitchen  and  passed  into  the  parlour, 
slamming  the  door  after  her  ghost-like  figure.  Tom 
rose  from  his  chair  and  hastened  after  her. 

He  found  her  in  tears  and  suffering  from  a  parox- 
ysm of  coughing. 

"All  right,  Jane,  all  right;  I'm  going.  I'll  tell 
him/'  he  murmured,  trying  to  soothe  her.  "  Just  you 
wait  a  minute,  dear.  I'll  settle  it,  see  if  I  don't.  I'll 
tell  him  he's  got  to  go.  No  two  ways  about  it." 

When  Drake  opened  his-  eyes  and  consciousness 
partly  returned,  he  was  surprised  to  find  himself  lying 
on  his  bed.  Frightful  dreams  had  possessed  him; 
dreams  he  could  not  forget  nor  dissociate  from  the 
incidents  of  the  day  before;  the  day  before,  chaotic 
and  unfathomable.  Heterogeneous  things,  so  strange, 
never  before  parts  of  either  dreams  or  hours  of  un- 
troubled waking,  now  shook  his  understanding.  On 
an  ever-swelling  body,  the  form  of  which  was  that  of 
his  charwoman's,  was  set  the  beautiful  head  of  a  young 
girl,  whose  long  fair  hair  fell  about  the  bent  shoulders 
and  breasts  of  the  loathed  woman.  Over  this  a  long 
bony  arm  swung  the  mutilated  head  of  the  filicide's 
wife,  through  the  gashes  of  which  streamed  rays  of 
blood-red  light.  An  old  man  and  Mrs.  Kembleton 
held  Gower,  who,  with  a  knife  in  his  hand,  stood  over 
the  form  of  a  beautiful  woman,  whose  dishevelled  hair 
seemed  like  tongues  of  flame  leaping  up  and  around  the 
struggling  Gower.  Such  phantoms  of  his  amorphous 
mind  seemed  to  pass  within  the  precincts  of  his  room. 
The  dread  procession  came  at  last  to  an  end.  He 
.sprang  from  the  bed  and  rushed  to  the  door  between 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  165 

the  kitchen  and  the  bedroom.  Suddenly  he  thought 
of  the  charwoman,  and  dread  rilled  his  quailing  heart. 
Upon  a  chair  he  sank  and  wept  bitterly,  wept  till  rea- 
son came  and  dispersed  the  hideous  visions  of  the 
night. 

He  found  no  water  in  his  pitcher  for  his  bath.  His 
body  burned  and  his  throat  was  like  a  furnace.  He 
went  to  the  door  and  listened,  but  heard  no  sound.  He 
called  to  the  charwoman,  but  got  no  answer.  Timidly 
he  opened  the  door  and  peeped  into  the  kitchen.  The 
wretched  woman  was  not  there.  With  a  lighter  mind 
he  took  up  the  pitcher  and  went  to  the  rather  primitive 
pump  at  the  kitchen-sink.  In  returning  to  the  bed- 
room, he  noticed  the  chalk  sketch  of  the  charwoman's 
head  upon  the  stove.  To  his  shaken  mind  his  own 
drawing  seemed  like  a  grinning  apparition.  He 
started,  trembled,  and  turned  cold.  With  fearful  haste 
he  found  in  a  cupboard  a  black-lead  brush;  over  the 
stove  he  bent,  and  spitting  on  the  hideous  sketch,  He 
brushed  out  the  revolting  chalk-marks. 

From  that  moment  the  doings  of  the  day  before  be- 
gan to  take  proper  shape  and  sequence.  Slowly  he 
traced  each  incident  and  the  actions  of  each  hour  till 
he  arrived  at  the  scene  in  the  cafe  when  D'Erblet  left 
Silde  and  him.  Then  several  hours  were  a  blank  to 
him,  and  he  next  remembered  that  he  sat  upon  his 
favourite  seat  perched  on  a  hill  in  Central  Park.  There 
a  policeman  reminded  him  of  the  hour.  It  was  past 
nine  and  time  to  leave  that  place  where  he  had  found 
surcease  of  many  sorrows,  that  seat  where  he  had  often 
gazed  upon  the  setting  sun  and  forgot  the  pains  of 
hunger.  Then  he  remembered  leaving  the  park  by  a 


i66  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

western  gate.  He  was  tired,  worn-out.  Mind  and 
body  ached.  His  feet  were  sore  and  burned  in  his 
thin  shoes.  He  felt  as  if  he  had  been  running,  run- 
ning, mile  after  mile  over  broken  ground,  chased  by 
demons  whose  pace  had  been  hardly  less  terrific  than 
his  own. 

A  woman  walked  at  his  side  and  murmured  some  of 
her  stock  terms  of  endearment  in  his  ear.  She  was  so 
persistent  that  he  had  to  stop  and  find  in  his  pockets 
a  silver  coin  to  give  her.  This  he  did,  and  bade  her 
try  some  other  business  less  desperate  and  precarious. 
That  he  should  be  molested  in  that  way  filled  his  heart 
with  pity  for  the  wretched  woman  who  from  his  ap- 
pearance could  for  a  moment  imagine  him  a  possible 
customer.  His  weariness  and  fatigue  weighed  heavily 
upon  him.  He  felt  he  must  sit  down  or  fall.  He 
had  reached  a  busy  part  of  Ninth  Avenue.  A  bril- 
liantly lighted  saloon  attracted  him.  Into  the  bar  he 
limped,  sat  down,  and  ordered  a  sandwich  and  a  glass 
of  lager  beer. 

Drake  had  not  tasted  brandy  for  ten  weeks.  A  kind 
friend  had  done  wonders  in  getting  him  to  live  a  fairly 
decent,  sober  life.  Not  for  many  years  had  he  been  so 
long  abstemious. 

When  the  waiter  brought  the  sandwich  and  the  beer, 
Drake  remembered  that  he  had  not  eaten  since  break- 
fast. He  took  a  mouthful  of  the  sandwich  and  spat 
it  out.  It  was  not  fresh.  A  draught  of  the  beer  had 
quite  a  disastrous  effect  on  his  empty  stomach.  After 
a  complicated  attack  of  vertigo,  he  asked  the  waiter  to 
take  away  the  remaining  portions  of  the  sandwich  and 
beer.  He  picked  up  an  evening  paper  and  pretended 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  167 

to  read.  It  was  the  paper  on  the  staff  of  which  he  had 
in  a  subordinate  position  been  working  of  late  so 
steadily.  Suddenly  he  realised  that  he  had  not  that 
day  been  near  the  editorial  office.  The  editor,  on 
giving  him  work  for  the  third  time,  had  told  him  that 
he  would  never  permit  him  to  work  for  the  paper 
another  day  if  he  again  started  drinking  and  could  not 
attend  to  his  duties.  His  editor's  words  came  back 
to  him,  and  now  he  concluded  that  his  doom  had  been 
sealed,  as  far  as  that  paper  was  concerned. 

But,  instead  of  remorse,  a  spirit  of  devilry  took  hold 
of  him,  and  pitching  aside  the  paper,  he  called  for 
brandy.  And  there  he  drank  brandy  till  the  bartender 
was  afraid  to  sell  him  more. 

All  this  he  distinctly  recalled  as  he  sat  on  the  side 
of  his  bed,  but  how  he  reached  home  and  got  to  bed 
was  a  mystery  to  him. 

He  could  not  help  but  wonder  why  he  survived  year 
after  year  of  drink  and  opium.  Even  at  the  moment 
when  he  was  reflecting  on  his  protracted  life  he  was 
half-amazed  to  find  how  well  he  was  after  the  night's 
debauch.  Five  years  before  a  doctor  who  had  attended 
him  in  an  hospital  through  a  serious  illness  told  him 
he  would  not  live  twelve  months  if  he  did  not  stop 
drinking. 

He  filled  his  cup  with  bitter  draughts  of  hrs  own  dis- 
tilling, but  he  never  hesitated  to  drain  it  to  the  very 
lees. 

A  knock  on  the  door  aroused  him.  He  went  through 
to  the  kitchen,  and  was  about  to  open  the  door,  when  he 
started  back  and  felt  it  might  be  the  charwoman.  Then 
he  thought  she  would  not  knock. 


ii68  MADAME   BOHEMIA! 

"Who's  there?"  he  cried. 

"  Paulton,"  replied  the  grocer.  "  I  want  to  see  you 
for  a  minute,  Mr.  Drake." 

Drake  opened  the  door,  and  in  his  landlord  passed 
with  a  very  serious  face.  He  stood  in  the  centre  of 
the  kitchen  floor  and  looked  at  his  lodger,  then  sadly 
shook  his  head. 

"  What's  the  matter,  Tom  ?"  Drake  asked,  noticing 
the  grocer's  embarrassment.  Paulton  turned  and  shut 
the  door. 

"  Well,  you  see,  my  wife  is "     Paulton  did  not 

know  how  to  begin.  He  had  never  before  given  a 
tenant  notice  to  quit.  His  eyes  roamed  round  the 
cheerless  place  and  rested  on  the  stove. 

"  Hullo !"  he  cried.     "  Why,  that's  funny." 

"What's  funny?"  said  Drake,  glancing  at  the  spot 
on  which  the  grocer's  eyes  were  fixed. 

"  Why,  where's  that  face?"  Paulton  asked  in  a  tone 
of  mystery. 

Drake  pretended  to  know  nothing  about  it,  but  this 
only  heightened  Paulton's  curiosity  and  wonder. 

"  Well,  I'll  be  blessed !  My  wife  said  there  was  a 
face  on  top  of  that  there  stove  yesterday,"  Paulton 
exclaimed. 

"  It  is  not  there  now,"  Drake  said.  "  But  did  you 
come  up  to  see  me,  or  to  look  for  a  head  on  top  of  the 
stove?" 

"  Well,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  did  come  to  see  you,  Mr. 
Drake,"  Paulton  muttered,  half-abashed. 

"  What  about,  eh  ?"  Drake  felt  there  was  something 
wrong. 

"  You  see,  my  wife  is  a  very  sick  woman,  and  some- 


MADAME   BOHEMIA! 

How  sHe's  got  a  notion  in  her  head  that  she  doesn't 
want  to  let  any  more  rooms  any  more,  and — well, 

I "  Paulton  faltered;  he  could  not  find  suitable 

words  for  the  rest  of  his  speech. 

"  Oh,  she  has  had  enough  of  me,  eh  ?"  said  Drake, 
quite  unmoved. 

"  Well,  I  guess  that's  just  about  the  way  it  is,"  said 
the  grocer,  much  relieved.  "You  see  she's  fidgety 
and  gets  scared  about  nothing.  I'm  mighty  sorry,  for 
I  should  'a'  liked  you  to  finish  the" — he  cleared  his 
throat  and  lifted  up  his  shoulders — "  'A  Compendium 
of  Useful  Axioms  and  Excerpts  from  the  Oblivious 
Literature  of  the  An — Anthro — oh,  yes, — Anthro- 
pophagi.' ' 

"What  is  that?"  Drake  asked,  with  an  amused 
smile. 

"  Why,  the  big  book  you're  writing  on,  of  course. 
You  wrote  the  title  down  on  the  back  of  one  of  our 
bills  so  as  I  could  learn  it  off  by  heart  to  paralyse  old 
MacDougal,  the  undertaker  across  the  way,"  Paulton 
cried,  raising  his  voice,  and  looking  at  Drake  with  an 
expression  of  half-pity  and  half-disappointment. 

"  Oh,  yes,  yes,  I  had  forgotten.  Never  mind,  Paul- 
ton.  How  much  do  I  owe  you?" 

"  How  much  do  you  owe  me  ?  Owe  me  ?  Why, 
nothing.  All  I  want  of  you  is  for  you  to  give  me  a 
copy  with  my  name  on  it  of  that  there" — he  cleared 
his  throat  and  lifted  up  his  shoulders — "  'A  Com- 
pen- 

"Ah,  I'm  afraid  you'll  have  to  wait  a  long  time  for 
that.  I  may  not  live  to  finish  it.  I  would  rather  pay 
you  what  I  owe  you,"  said  Drake. 


170  MADAME   'BOHEMIA1 

"  I'll  not  hear  of  it.  Why,  aren't  we  turning  you 
out  and  putting  you  to  a  deal  of  inconvenience?  Not 
likely.  I'm  mighty  sorry  poor  Jane's  got  that  foolish 
Idea  in  her  head.  But  if  you  do  finish  that,  you  will 
give  me  a  copy,  won't  you?" 

"  Yes,  yes,  if  I  finish  it,"  said  Drake.  He  put  his 
hand  to  his  head. 

Paulton  noticed  the  gesture,  and  a  broad  grin  spread 
over  his  face.  He  was  about  to  speak  when  he  sud- 
denly thought  that  Jane  might  be  listening.  He  turned, 
opened  the  door,  leaned  over  the  banisters,  and  called, 
"All  right,  Jane,  dear,  Mr.  Drake  is  going  to  go." 
He  listened  for  a  moment  and  heard  Jane  begin  to  eat 
her  dinner.  Drake  had  gone  into  his  bedroom  when 
Paulton  returned  and  closed  the  kitchen  door. 

"  Come  in,  Tom,"  Drake  called. 

. "  I  suppose  you've  got  a  pretty  bad  head  this  morn- 
ing, Mr.  Drake,"  Paulton  remarked,  casting  a  rather 
sly  glance.  "  You  gave  me  lots  to  dream  about  last 
night." 

"  Did  I  ?  How  so  ?"  Drake  asked,  with  some  in- 
difference. 

"  Had  to  go  down  and  let  you  in.  You  were  plumb 
up  against  the  door,  on  the  ground,  fast  asleep,"  the 
grocer  began  to  explain. 

"I  was?" 

"  Yes ;  and  the  devil  of  it  was  I  shut  myself  out ; 
then  I'm  blessed  if  a  bobby  didn't  sneak  down  the 
passage  and  flash  his  lantern  on  us  just  as  I  was  get- 
ting your  keys  out  of  your  pocket.  It  was  awkward, 
for  the  bobby  was  a  new  policeman  and  didn't  know 
me  from  a  hole  in  the  ground.  O' Conor,  the  big 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  171 

fellow  that  used  to  look  after  you,  was  ill.  Well,  he 
wanted  to  arrest  me.  Me,  you  know,  as  if  I  was  a 
regular  tough !  Lord,  how  I  laughed  after  Jane  went 
off  sound  asleep!"  Paulton  explained,  grinning  and 
smothering  his  inclination  to  laugh  out  loud. 

"Oh,  that  was  how  it  was,  eh?"  said  Drake,  half- 
ashamed  that  he  should  have  caused  the  good-natured 
grocer  so  much  trouble. 

"  Yes,  that  was  it.  I — I — carried  you  up  here  on 
my  back." 

"  You're  a  good  sort,  Tom,  and  I'm  very  grateful, 
though  my  behaviour  has  not  been  appreciative,"  said 
Drake,  giving  Paulton's  hand  a  good  grip. 

"  Bah,  Mr.  Drake,  that  was  nothing.  You  would 
'a'  done  the  same  for  me,"  Tom  interposed,  not  taking 
his  bulk  and  Drake's  slim  figure  into  consideration. 
"  But  it  was  a  pity  Jane  was  kind  a  wakeful.  Never 
mind,  though,  you'll  find  lots  of  better  places  than  this. 
Are  you  sure  there's  nothing  I  can  do  towards  fixing 
up  another  place  near  by  for  you?  There's  plenty  of 
nice  rooms  round  this  neighbourhood." 

"  Don't  you  bother  about  that.  I've  been  for  a  long 
time  thinking  of  taking  a  trip  to  Spitzbergen  or  Terra 
del  Fuego,"  said  Drake  sardonically. 

"Lord!  what  for?"  cried  the  surprised  grocer. 
"That's  a  devil  of  a  long  way  off,  isn't  it?" 

"  No,  not  so  very  far.  But  distance  doesn't  matter ; 
it  all  depends  on  how  you  get  there.  Will  you  let  that 
woman  know  I  have  left  here?  I'll  send  you  some 
money  to  give  her;  poor  soul,  I'm  afraid  she  won't 
get  much  to  do,"  said  Drake,  quite  concerned  about 
her  future. 


172  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

"  Wouldn't  give  her  a  damn  cent.  She's  been  tell- 
ing my  wife  a  lot  of  lies  about  you.  Said  you  chalked 
her  face  on  top  of  the  stove  out  there." 

"  Well,  it's  true,  Tom.  I  did  make  a  bit  of  a  sketch, 
but  I'm  sorry  she  saw  it,"  Drake  admitted. 

"  Gosh !  Should  'a'  liked  to  have  seen  it.  Draw 
another,  Mr.  Drake,"  the  grocer  requested,  all  excited 
at  the  prospect. 

"  Oh,  no." 

"  Do." 

"  No ;   I'm  afraid  I  hurt  her  feelings,  Tom." 

"  She'll  not  see  it.  Come,  I'm  mighty  anxious  to 
see  how  you  draw  that  eye  which  she  hasn't  got,  and 
most  particular  the  bottom  of  her  face  where  there 
ain't  anything  at  all." 

Drake  was  astonished  to  see  Paulton  so  curious.  It 
was  quite  grotesque  to  see  how  the  jolly  face  of  the 
grocer  seemed  to  beam  with  delight.  His  eyes  sparkled 
and  his  excitement  increased.  They  went  into  the 
kitchen,  where  Drake  found  a  piece  of  pipe-clay.  The 
two  were  soon  bending  over  the  stove.  As  Drake 
made  the  sketch  Paulton's  expression  changed  to 
one  of  amazement  and  horror.  The  white  lines  on 
the  black  stove  seemed  to  twitch  with  life.  There 
was  something  so  frightfully  repugnant  in  the  sketch 
when  it  was  finished  that  Paulton  shrank  back,  cast 
a  look  of  terror  at  Drake,  and  said,  "  Rub  it 
out!" 

But  Mrs.  Paulton,  having  lost  what  little  patience 
she  had,  had  gone  up  and  walked  into  the  kitchen  be- 
fore the  men  were  aware  of  her  presence. 

"  Well,  I  do  declare,"  the  grocer's  wife  exclaimed, 


MADAME    BOHEMIA 

"  that's  disgusting,  I  do  think,  Mr.  Drake.  She's  not 
half  as  ugly  as  that." 

Tom  heard  his  wife's  voice  before  he  noticed  her. 
So  it  was  useless  trying  to  cover  his  surprise  and  em- 
barrassment. Drake  stood  calmly  looking  at  the 
emaciated  figure  of  the  grocer's  wife. 

"  Have  you  got  nothing  else  to  do  but  watch  Mr. 
Drake  draw  horrible  things  on  the  top  of  my  stove?" 
she  demanded. 

"  Why,  yes,  dear,  of  course  I  have.  But  it  is  won- 
derful, Jane,  isn't  it?  Why,  there  ain't  anything  at 
all  where  her  chin  ought  to  be,  and  so  there  ain't  in 
the  picture,  but  there's  no  mistaking  that's  her  face," 
said  Paulton,  scratching  his  head. 

"  Come  and  eat  your  dinner,  do,"  said  Mrs.  Paulton, 
going  to  the  door. 

"  I'm  coming,  but  I  don't  want  any  dinner,"  cried 
Tom.  Turning  to  Drake,  he  said  in  a  low  tone,  "  Call 
in  the  shop  as  you  go  out,  will  you,  Mr.  Drake?" 

"  Yes.  But  I  shall  be  some  time,  for  I  have  a  few 
things  to  pack  up,"  Drake  replied. 

"All  right.  It  was  a  pity  Jane  was  so  wakeful," 
Paulton  muttered  as  he  left  the  kitchen. 

Drake  went  into  his  bedroom  and  forgot  to  rub  out 
the  sketch.  From  under  his  bed  he  pulled  out  a  long 
box  and  threw  his  papers  and  books  into  it.  Taking 
from  the  wall  the  picture  of  the  beautiful  woman's 
head,  he  laid  it  on  his  bed  and  stood  for  several  min- 
utes gazing  at  it. 

"  Mother,"  he  murmured. 

When  he  was  two  weeks  old  an  aunt  took  him  away 
from  the  dying  woman  who  had  lived  only  to  give  him 


374  MADAME   BOHEMIA1 

\ 

birth.  Before  he  completed  the  first  month  of  his  life's 
journey  his  mother  reached  her  goal.  His  distracted 
father,  who  had  for  years  before  his  marriage  been  a 
drunkard,  forgot  the  puny  little  thing,  his  son,  and 
assisted  by  the  demon  of  drink,  two  years  of  delirium 
were  enough  to  end  all  his  woes. 

Mother  and  father  slept  in  the  same  grave.  Drake 
had  often  spent  an  hour  in  the  little  churchyard  which 
overlooked  the  Hudson  River,  where  in  the  distance 
the  Catskills  frowned  and  the  wild  birds  swooped  over 
crested  peaks  to  the  music  of  myriad  pines.  He  won- 
dered if  it  were  possible  for  his  body  at  last  to  rest 
under  the  shadow  of  the  quaint,  squat  spire,  the  clock 
of  which  faced  the  sunset  gates  which  seemed  to  lie 
just  over  the  horizon  of  the  beautiful  valley,  far  away 
at  the  base  of  the  great  steep  cliffs.  As  he  stood  looking 
upon  the  picture  of  his  mother,  the  long  checkered  past 
of  his  life,  like  phantoms  of  a  frightful  dream,  con- 
fronted him.  Drake  was  seldom  given  to  hours  of  re-1 
flection ;  regret  was  futile  and  hope  a  mockery.  Still, 
he  often  thought  that  he  had  never  been  given  a  chance. 
His  aunt  told  him  when  he  was  a  little  boy  of  twelve, 
sickly  and  uninteresting,  that  his  father  and  mother 
loved  each  other  beyond  all  reason,  and,  furthermore, 
that  his  father  could  never  keep  away  from  the  drink, 
the  horrible  stuff  that  killed  him. 

"  What  does  it  matter  ?  There's  no  escape/'  was 
Drake's  comment  on  himself.  He  knew  the  refining  in- 
fluence of  a  kind  friend  frequently  did  wonders  for 
him.  But  the  terrible  periods  when  the  craze  came 
upon  him  were  absolutely  irresistible. 


CHAPTER    XIV 

WHEN  Elinor  went  into  Lexham's  room  on  that 
night  when  she  found  the  telegram  which  Gower 
dropped,  she  was  surprised  to  see  the  invalid  sitting 
up  in  his  bed  at  work  on  his  play.  For  a  while  she 
forgot  her  errand  about  the  telegram  and  thought 
only  of  the  risk  Lexham  was  taking  in  trying  to  do 
too  much  in  his  weak  condition.  She  persuaded  him 
to  lay  aside  his  manuscript. 

"  I'm  glad  you  looked  in.  I'm  not  at  all  tired. 
The  long  sleep  I  take  at  noon  prevents  my  sleeping 
again  before  midnight,"  he  said. 

"Are  you  sure  you  are  not  tired?  I  want  your 
advice,  Gilbert,  on  a  matter  which  alarms  me." 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked,  glancing  at  the  telegram 
which  she  held  in  her  hand. 

"  Read  this."     She  gave  him  the  message. 

He  read  it  and  handed  it  back  to  her. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  what  is  it  all  about?" 

"  This  is  a  message  from  Mrs.  Laird  to  Cyril.  He 
must  have  dropped  it.  I  found  it  on  the  floor  in  my 
room." 

She  was  in  such  a  state  of  anxiety  that  it  was  some 
time  before  he  contrived  to  get  her  to  explain  clearly 
why  the  telegram  was  the  cause  of  her  agitation. 

Elinor  briefly  stated  all  that  had  taken  place  during 
the  visit  to  Boston. 

"Do  you  think  they  mean  to  elope?"  she  asked, 

175 


1 76  MADAME   BOHEMIA1 

after  the  silence  which  usually  follows  an  important 
revelation. 

"  No,"  he  replied,  with  some  emphasis. 

"But,  don't  you  think  this  telegram  very  strange? 
What  can  it  mean  ?" 

She  was  rather  disappointed  at  Lexham's  calmness. 

"  The  telegram  may  mean  a  good  many  different 
things,  but  hardly  what  you  think  it  does.  If  Cyril 
thinks  he  has  a  chance  of  marrying  her  after  she  is 
divorced  from  Mr.  Laird,  he  wouldn't  be  such  a  fool 
as  to  endanger  his  prospects  by  a  rash  action  which 
all  her  people  would  condemn." 

There  was  something  so  reasonable  about  his  reply 
that  Elinor  was  surprised  she  had  not  seen  the  matter 
in  that  light  before  she  gave  way  to  her  fears.  Still, 
she  was  not  quite  satisfied.  She  thought  it  was  all 
too  momentous  for  such  a  simple  elucidation. 

"  And  you  don't  think  there  is  cause  to  fear  ?" 

"  Not  a  bit,"  he  interposed.  "  If,  as  you  say,  she 
will  be  wealthy  when  her  aunt  dies,  I  think  Cyril  must 
know  his  wisest  plan  is  to  wait  till  she  is  free." 

"  But  she  is  a  very  charming  woman,  Gilbert." 

"  Pretty  ?"  he  asked,  with  a  smile. 

"  Handsome,  and  such  a  figure,"  she  said,  quite  in- 
genuously. "  Quite  clever,  too." 

"  Then  Cyril,  I  think,  will,  for  the  present,  be  quite 
safe,  and,  no  doubt,  in  very  good  hands.  Don't  let 
the  matter  worry  you,  for,  if  she  is  handsome  and 
clever,  Cyril  will  be,  at  once,  attracted  and  restrained." 

It  was  then  long  past  midnight,  and  the  effects  of 
the  long  day  began  to  show  on  her  pale  face.  What  a 
long  day  it  had  been!  She  thought  that  no  day  in 


MADAME   BOHEMIA 

her  life  she  could  remember  had  been  crowded  with  so 
many  joys  and  fears.  But  Lexham  had  succeeded 
in  allaying  her  fears.  The  telegram  fell  from  her 
hand  as  she  reclined  easily  in  the  large  comfortable 
chair.  She  could  not  help  wondering  how  sweet  was 
the  peace  she  had  found  in  this  little  room  where  Lex- 
ham  had  lain  for  so  long.  She  turned  in  the  chair 
and  looked  towards  him.  His  eyes  were  fixed  upon 
her.  She  thought  she  had  never  seen  such  a  look  of 
gratitude  and  devotion  as  that  he  then  poured  upon  her. 

"  I'm  so  tired,  Gilbert,"  she  said,  with  a  smile,  for 
she  had  noticed  that  he  tried  to  look  unconcerned  after 
she  unexpectedly  turned  and  caught  his  glance. 

He  raised  his  eyes  and  looked  again  at  her.  Sud- 
denly she  felt  conscious  of  her  flushed  cheeks  and  the 
fast  beating  of  her  heart.  She  trembled  and  turned 
restlessly  in  her  chair.  Her  eyes  dropped. 

It  was  the  first  moment  they  had  been  in  the  slight- 
est degree  aware  of  any  embarrassment. 

She  arose,  bade  him  sleep  well,  and  left  the  room. 

I**T*^KT*T*T^'P*I* 

Gower  had  met  Mrs.  Laird  at  the  station  on  the  day 
when  they  were  together  at  the  cafe  on  Broadway. 
After  Drake's  strange  behaviour  they  went  to  another 
restaurant,  where  they  dined.  Gower  had  received 
from  Elinor  forty  dollars  to  pay  for  his  new  coat,  but 
the  bill  was  receipted  for  only  twenty-eight. 

As  they  walked  up  Broadway  from  the  cafe  to  the 
restaurant,  where  he  had  ordered  an  early  dinner,  he 
felt  proud  and  happy.  The  thrill  of  pleasure  he  felt 
when  an  acquaintance  passed  and  looked  with  admira- 
tion at  his  handsome  companion  made  him  happier 

12 


178  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

than  he  knew  how  to  express.  He  had  bought  for  her 
an  expensive  bunch  of  violets ;  it  lay  on  her  breast  just 
beneath  her  chin,  which,  as  she  moved  her  head, 
seemed  to  be  half-buried  in  the  fragrant  blossoms. 
When  they  reached  the  restaurant  he  was  delighted 
to  find  the  place  quite  empty;  they  were  the  only 
diners.  Once  the  dinner  began  he  wished  it  would 
never  end.  He  was  too  happy  to  eat,  and  she  merely 
nibbled  at  the  dainty  courses. 

"  I'm  so  sorry  you  must  return  to  Boston  so  soon," 
he  said,  when  the  waiter  brought  the  ices.  "  Can't 
you  wait  till  a  later  train?" 

"  No,  no ;  it  will  be  near  midnight  before  I  reach 
home.  You  know  I  did  intend  to  take  the  five  o'clock 
train,  but  it  was  so  pleasant  at  the  cafe  that  I  quite 
forgot  about  the  time." 

She  looked  at  her  watch,  and  began  to  put  on  her 
gloves. 

"  Did  you  tell  Mrs.  Sefton  where  you  were  going?" 
he  asked,  wondering  if  any  excuse  could  be  found  for 
protracting  her  visit. 

"  Tell  auntie?  Dear  me,  no!  She  would  have  had 
a  fit.  I  said  I  was  going  into  town  and  should  be 
late." 

She  did  not  seem  to  feel  the  slightest  compunction 
in  deceiving  her  aunt,  and  he  did  not  like  the  casual 
way  in  which  she  spoke  of  it.  He  was  suspicious, 
and  wondered  if  Mr.  Laird  had  had  cause  for  his 
quarrels  with  her. 

"  How  I  wish  you  could  live  in  Boston !"  she  said, 
so  earnestly  that  his  suspicion  vanished. 

"  I  don't  know  what  I  shall  do  till  you  come  again 


MADAME   BOHEMIA  179 

to  New  York.  I  know  of  no  business  reason  I  could 
invent  to  take  me  to  Boston,"  he  said,  trying  to  take 
Her  hand. 

She  thought  he  looked  despondent. 

"  Don't,"  she  whispered,  as  she  picked  up  her  veil. 

"  I  can't  let  you  go " 

"  Ssh !  Listen !"  She  leaned  across  the  table. 
"  I've  been  seriously  thinking  of  persuading  auntie 
to  spend  a  few  weeks  here  before  we  go  to  the  sea- 
side," she  murmured,  and  her  soft,  merry  laugh  made 
Gower  almost  forget  he  was  observed  by  several 
waiters. 

"  That  would  be  delightful !  Do  get  her  to  come," 
he  pleaded.  "  If  she  will  spend  April  here,  I  will  con- 
sent to  give  her  piano  lessons." 

"A  magnanimous  promise !  Really !"  She  laughed 
at  his  earnestness. 

"  Yes,  anything  to  see  you, — anything" 

"  And  will  you  give  me  lessons  ?" 

"  Ah,  that  would  be  a  pleasure  too  great  for  me  to 
imagine!"  he  exclaimed. 

"Oh,  how  delightful!" 

"  Do  you  think  it's  at  all  possible?"  he  asked. 

:<  Yes,  I  think  so,"  she  said,  after  a  moment's  re- 
flection. "  Well,  at  any  rate,  I  will  try.  But  wouldn't 
it  be  a  good  idea?  Besides,  if  we  were  to  come,  I'm 
sure  auntie  would  invite  Mrs.  Kembleton  and  you 
to  spend  a  week  or  so  with  us  at  her  summer  cottage." 

This  was  almost  too  much  for  Gower's  lively  sense 
of  anticipation.  Had  it  not  been  -for  a  waiter  ap- 
proaching at  that  moment  with  some  coffee  he  would 
have  caught  her  hands  and  kissed  them. 


i8o  MADAME   BOHEMIA1 

"  There,  I've  forgotten  the  time  again,  and  now  I've 
only  fifteen  minutes  to  catch  the  train,"  she  said,  rising 
and  quickly  putting  on  her  veil. 

"  We  can  jump  into  a  cab,"  Gower  said,  helping  her 
on  with  her  coat.  The  bill  was  paid,  and  soon  they 
were  speeding  towards  the  station. 

"  Gertrude,  I  love  you  with  all  my  heart  and  soul. 
I  cannot  tell  you  all  you  have  already  done  for  me.  I 
know  I  shall  do  good  work  now,  and  I  shall  have  to 
thank  you  for  it  all." 

She  let  her  head  rest  on  his  shoulder.  He  kissed 
her  again  and  again.  They  hastened  from  the  cab, 
and  she  was. not  a  minute  too  soon,  for  he  had  barely 
time  to  see  her  seated  in  the  train  before  it  began  to 
move. 

He  stood  upon  the  platform  for  some  minutes  after 
the  train  passed  out  of  sight,  and  wondered  where  he 
should  go  to  think  over  all  the  incidents  of  the  happy 
afternoon.  Clubs  had  no  attraction  for  him  that 
night. 

It  did  not  enter  his  mind  to  go  home  and  spend  the 
evening  with  Elinor.  He  went  for  a  long  walk  through 
the  Park,  and  having  made  several  calls,  he  did  not 
return  to  the  busy  thoroughfares  till  nearly  ten  o'clock. 
He  was  sauntering  home,  when  he  suddenly  stopped 
before  the  window  of  a  fine  delicatessen  shop.  He 
remembered  that  he  had  not  eaten  much  of  the  fine 
dinner  for  which  he  had  paid  nearly  eight  dollars.  He 
was  now  Hungry.  He  thought  a  pate  and  some  bis- 
cuits would  make  a  dainty  supper.  In  he  went,  and 
looked  up  and  down  the  counter  spread  with  delicious 
viands.  He  did  not  notice  a  woman  standing  in  the 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  181 

corner  near  the  cashier's  desk  in  earnest  conversa- 
tion with  a  short  man  dressed  in  a  white  coat  and 
apron. 

"  I'm  very  sorry,  Mr.  Simon,"  the  woman  in  the 
corner  was  saying,  "  but  the  ten  dollars  I  paid  you  two 
days  ago  was  all  the  money  I  had.  It  is  no  use  for 
me  to  tell  you  I  shall  soon  have  the  balance  of  the  bill 
I  owe  you,  for  I  can't  see  where  I'm  to  raise  more  till 
May." 

"  I  wouldn't  dream  of  troubling  you,  madam,"  the 
really  good-natured  Mr.  Simon  said,  "  if  it  were  not 
for  my  partner,  who  won't  consent  to  your  having 
anything  more  till  you  pay  up." 

"  Well,  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  what  to  do.  I've 
always  paid  you,  and  I  have  owed  you  larger  amounts 
than  this,"  was  the  troubled  woman's  reply. 

She  stood  with  her  back  turned  to  the  busy 
counter,  and  she  did  not  see  Gower  buy  a  pate, 
some  cooked  veal,  and  a  pound  of  lunch  biscuits. 
Just  as  he  reached  the  cashier's  desk  to  pay  his  bill, 
the  woman  who  had  been  talking  with  Mr.  Simon 
turned. 

"  Hullo,  Diva !"  Gower  cried,  and  tried  to  hide  his 
parcel. 

"  Cyril !"  Elinor  exclaimed,  looking  at  Gower's  hand 
full  of  silver  pieces. 

He  turned  to  pay  his  bill;  when  he  received  his 
change  she  was  gone.  He  could  not  quite  understand 
why  she  vanished  so  quickly.  When  he  reached  home 
he  found  her  in  tears. 

"  What's  the  matter,  Diva  ?"  he  asked,  in  rather  a 
tone  of  disappointment.  He  had  been  so  happy  all 


182  MADAME   BOHEMIA1 

day  that  He  now  felt  annoyed  to  reach  home  and  find — 
tears. 

She  soon  dried  her  eyes,  but  she  did  not  reply  to 
his  question. 

"  I  thought  you  might  need  some  little  things  for 
supper,  so  I  went  in  to  Simon's  to  save  you  a  journey, 
and " 

He  suddenly  remembered  that  he  could  not  account 
for  the  money  which  she  must  have  seen  in  his  hand 
when  he  was  at  the  desk. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  suppose  you  are  wondering  where  on 
earth  I  got  the  money  from,  eh?" 

She  did  not  speak. 

"  Well,  you  see,  my  coat  did  not  come  to  quite  forty 
dollars,  and  so  I — a " 

"  Don't  try  to  explain,"  she  said  firmly  but  quietly. 

"  But  I  insist,"  he  whined. 

"  Please  don't.  You  paid  for  the  coat  yesterday 
afternoon,  for  you  wore  it  when  you  came  in  here  this 
morning.  I  told  you  we  hadn't  much  to  eat,  yet  you 
cared  so  little  that  you  went  away  with  money  in  your 
pocket  and  left  me  without  a  penny.  If  you  have 
ceased  to  care — all  right,  so  have  I." 

She  tried  to  laugh  lightly.  That  pained  him  more 
than  her  earnestness  did. 

"  Cyril,  I've  had  nothing  to  eat  since  breakfast,  and 
that  was  sent  up  by  Mrs.  Pollack.  I  have  nothing  for 
to-morrow.  Good-night,  I'm  very  tired.  Leave  me 
alone." 

"  But "  He  was  pale  with  anger  and  humilia- 
tion. 

"  Don't  say  any  more.     Please  go  1" 


Don't  try  to  explain,"  she  said  firmly  but  quietly 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  183 

"  I  shan't.  I've  got  a  lot  of  things  in  this  parcel, 
and  I  insist  on  you  eating  something  before  you  go 
to  bed.  I'm  damn  sure  I'll  not  leave  the  room  till 
you  do." 

It  was  the  first  time  she  had  heard  him  swear. 

"  Cyril,  you  are  very  forgetful." 

"  I  can't  help  it.     You've  got  to  eat  something." 

He  was  enraged.  He  stalked  up  and  down  the  room 
in  a  very  tempest  of  passion. 

"  I  couldn't  eat  a  bite.     Take  it  away,"  she  said. 

"You  won't  eat?"   he  demanded. 

"  No." 

"  I'll  pitch  the  things  on  the  fire  if  you  don't." 

"  Don't  lose  your  temper,  Cyril.  I  can't  eat  be- 
cause I  have  gone  past  it.  I'm  a  little  disgusted  and 
very  tired.  Your  thoughtlessness  has  put  me  in  a 
bad  fix  with  Simon.  The  moment  before  I  saw  you 
at  the  desk  with  a  handful  of  silver  about  to  pay  your 
bill  I  had  told  Simon  that  I  had  no  money.  He  saw 
you,  and  he  must  think  it  strange  that  I  should  almost 
beg  for  provisions  when  you  had  money  and  were  buy- 
ing delicacies." 

He  was  completely  humiliated.  A  vague  sense  of 
shame  was  in  him,  but  this  he  suppressed  with  a 
thought  that  Elinor  was  indirectly  blaming  Mrs. 
Laird,  that  he  was  not  wholly  to  blame. 

"  I  think  you  forget  that  you  have  not  given  a  piano 
lesson  since  this  year  began,"  she  said,  without  any 
sarcasm. 

"  Piano  lessons,  bah !  As  if  I  ever  made  enough 
to  buy  food  for  a  rabbit.  I  didn't  know  you  were  in 
any  way  dependent  on  the  few  dollars  I  made  at  that 


1 84  MADAME    BOHEMIA' 

idiotic  game.  You  know  I  hate  teaching.  A  dollar 
a  lesson !  Um !  Rot !  Well,  I'll  start  teaching  again 
in  April,"  he  blurted  out. 

"  In  April  ?"    she  repeated. 

"  Yes ;  I  suppose  Mrs.  Sefton  and  her  niece  will 
come  here  for  a  few  weeks,  and  I  believe  they  want 
me  to  give  them  lessons." 

"  Indeed !     How  do  you  know  that  ?"  she  asked. 

"  Well,  a — Mrs.  Laird — a — mentioned  it  in  a  let- 
ter," he  replied  in  a  jerky,  confused  way. 

"  You  write  to  each  other  ?" 

"  Well,  what  if  we  do  ?  Confound  it,  there's  no 
harm  in  that,  is  there?" 

"  I  don't  know.     I  hope  not,"  she  murmured. 

"  Well,  harm  or  no  harm,  I  shall  continue  to  write. 
She  is  old  enough  to  know  her  own  mind,  and  so  long 
as  we're  sane  enough  to  do  nothing  to  prejudice  her 
case,  I  think  it  is  nobody's  business  but  our  own." 

"  Then  was  she  insane  enough  to  come  here  to-day 
to  see  you?"  Elinor  said.  Her  eyes  flashed  and  she 
shook  with  indignation. 

He  turned  swiftly  upon  her,  and  his  angry  gesture 
and  fierce  expression  made  her  heart  for  a  moment 
almost  quail.  She  thought  he  was  ready  to  strike 
her. 

"  You  followed  me !"  he  hissed. 

"  Followed  you !"  she  said,  in  a  helpless  way,  not 
knowing  just  what  his  accusation  meant. 

"  How  did  you  know  Mrs.  Laird  was  here  to-day? 
How  did  you  know?"  he  yelled,  trembling  with  rage. 
His  clenched  fist  shook  ominously  at  his  side.  His 
whole  attitude  was  menacing  and  wicked. 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  185 

"  I  didn't  know  she  was  here/'  Elinor  said  in  almost 
a  whisper.  She  was  white  and  ghost-like.  Her  eyes 
had  a  far-away  look.  Nothing  but  the  sweet  face  of 
a  fair-haired  child  filled  her  vision.  The  little  Cyril 
she  saw  at  the  piano  long  years  before  when  she  first 
heard  him  play  the  Chopin  Studies.  How  her  poor 
heart  yearned  for  that  dear  child !  How  a  voice  some- 
where deep  in  her  heart  cried  for  one  more  clinging 
embrace  of  that  tender-hearted  child's  soft  arms! 
Something  snapped.  There  she  saw  left  before  her  a 
threatening,  heartless  man  scowling  upon  her.  She 
reeled  and  fell. 

He  was  soon  at  her  side.  He  raised  her  head,  but 
he  could  think  of  nothing  to  do  for  her.  He  looked 
helplessly  around.  The  bitterness  still  in  his  heart 
made  him  think  his  plight  was  far  worse  than  it  was. 
He  left  her  and  rang  the  bell.  He  cursed  at  the  thought 
that  it  was  necessary  to  call  Mrs.  Pollack.  He  walked 
to  the  door  and  opened  it.  The  servant  was  coming 
slowly  up  the  stairs. 

"  Tell  Mrs.  Pollack  that  Mrs.  Kembleton  is  not  well, 
and  ask  her  if  she'll  come  up  at  once,"  he  said  quickly, 
in  a  hoarse  voice. 

He  went  back  into  the  room  and  saw  the  parcel  of 
food  on  the  table.  He  picked  it  up  and  hid  it  under 
the  sofa. 

Elinor  had  fainted  from  worry  and  lack  of  food 
more  than  from  the  shock  she  had  suffered  from  Gower. 
She  had  revived  before  Mrs.  Pollack  reached  the  room, 
and  to  Gower's  surprise  he  saw  Elinor  try  to  rise,  just 
as  he  succeeded  in  hiding  the  delicacies  he  had  bought 
from  Simon.  As  he  went  to  her  assistance  Mrs.  Pol- 


186  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

lack  rushed  in.  She  arranged  a  pillow  on  the  sofa,  and 
soon  had  Elinor  resting  there. 

"What's  the  matter?  What's  the  matter?"  cried 
the  landlady. 

"  I  think  she  fainted,"  Gower  said,  trying  to  over- 
come his  anger. 

"  It  was  nothing,  Mrs.  Pollack.  I  shall  be  all  right 
in  a  minute.  Good-night,  Cyril;  I'm  tired."  Elinor 
did  not  look  at  him.  She  saw  his  reflection  in  the 
mirror.  He  moved  towards  her. 

"  Don't  bother,"  she  said ;  "  I  shall  be  quite  well  in 
the  morning." 

"  I  hope  you "  he  began. 

"Yes,  yes,  good-night."  She  felt  she  could  not 
let  him  speak.  His  voice  was  hard  and  his  face  was 
stern  and  set.  She  was  afraid  to  hear  him  say  the 
insincere  words  which  the  presence  of  Mrs.  Pollack 
made  him  think  necessary. 

"  Good-night,"  he  murmured ;  and  habit,  so  strange 
and  strong,  forced  him  to  bend  down  to  kiss  her.  This 
she  avoided  by  raising  her  handkerchief  to  her  face. 
He  left  her  for  the  first  time  without  the  pretence  of  a 
kiss. 

Mrs.  Pollack  was  too  busy  looking  for  restoratives 
to  notice  what  was  taking  place,  but  she  was  startled 
by  the  noise  he  made  in  shutting  the  doors  of  the 
rooms. 

"  It  is  so  good  of  you,  Mrs.  Pollack,"  Elinor  said, 
"  but  I'm  not  ill, — really,  I'm  only  over-tired.  Don't 
worry.  A  good  night's  rest  will  do  me  much  good." 

"  Yes,  yes ;  but  let  me  get  your  slippers,"  the  kind 
landlady  said,  searching  under  the  chairs. 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  187 

"No,  no;    I'll  get  them." 

"  Do  lie  still,  Mrs.  Kembleton,"  Mrs.  Pollack  said, 
as  she  thrust  her  arm  under  the  sofa  and  placed  her 
hand  on  the  parcel  Gower  had  put  there  a  few  minutes 
before. 

"  Dear  me,  what's  this !"  she  cried,  looking  at  the 
parcel,  which  was  now  covered  with  large  grease-stains 
from  the  jelly  of  the  cooked  veal,  which  was  begin- 
ning to  melt  from  the  heat  of  the  room. 

"  Oh,  that,  I  think,  belongs  to  Mr.  Gower,"  Elinor 
said.  "  Please  take  it  to  him ;  he  may  want  it." 

But  Mrs.  Pollack  had  not  found  the  slippers,  so  she 
thoughtlessly  put  Gower's  parcel  on  a  small  ottoman 
which  stood  near  the  fireplace.  At  length  she  found 
the  slippers  behind  the  screen  in  the  alcove.  After 
she  had  done  all  she  thought  she  could  do  for  Elinor, 
she  picked  up  the  parcel,  without  noticing  the  further 
damage  done  by  the  heat  from  the  fire,  and  left  the 
room.  She  knocked  on  Gower's  door,  and  when  he 
opened  it,  handed  the  parcel  to  him,  saying,  "  Mrs. 
Kembleton  told  me  to  give  this  to  you,  sir." 

Gower  shut  the  door.  He  had  grasped  the  parcel 
so  tightly  that  the  thin  paper  burst  and  the  contents 
were  spilled  on  the  floor.  His  hands  were  soiled. 
Grease  upon  his  hands!  It  was  too  disgusting.  He 
gathered  the  pieces  together  on  his  fire-shovel,  opened 
the  window,  and  threw  the  lot  into  the  back  garden 
below, 


CHAPTER    XV 

ONE  fine  day  late  in  April  Dr.  Brydone  sent  his  car- 
riage to  Lexham.  In  this  the  convalescent  and  Elinor 
went  for  a  long  drive  through  the  Park  and  over  be- 
yond Grant's  tomb.  It  was  a  glorious  day,  and  Lex- 
ham  could  not  help  but  feel  the  same  joy  Coleridge 
was  conscious  of  when  he  wrote,  "  I  am  much  better, 
and  my  new  and  tender  health  is  all  over  me  like  a 
voluptuous  feeling."  What  a  scene  of  contrasts !  The 
heavenly  blue  unbroken  by  even  the  fleeciest  of  clouds ; 
before  them  the  Palisades,  straight  and  gaunt,  like 
dreadful  shadows  above  the  peaceful  Hudson;  the 
tolling  of  the  bell  and  grinding  of  the  trucks  of  a  loco- 
motive and  freight  train  reminded  him  of  the  great 
city  of  commerce  which  lay  behind  them  in  startling 
piles,  monotonous  and  glaring  in  the  strong  noon 
light. 

The  winter  of  illness  and  strife  was  past.  The 
warmth  of  awakening  spring  came  like  the  breath  of 
a  sweet  companion,  presaging  days  of  happiness  and 
peace.  Since  he  first  read  his  play  to  Elinor  he  had 
entirely  rewritten  it.  She  had  taken  it  to  a  friend, 
a  well-known  manager  of  theatres,  and  after  leaving 
it  there  for  a  week  which  seemed  to  her  almost  inter- 
minable, she  received  a  note  asking  her  to  present  the 
author;  for  though  the  manager  liked  the  play,  he 
would  prefer  that  the  dramatist  should  read  it  to  him 
rather  than  read  it  a  second  time  himself. 
1 88 


MADAME   BOHEMIA  189 

The  play  was  accepted  and  was  soon  to  be  put 
into  rehearsal.  The  company  of  players  had  been 
carefully  chosen.  In  another  week  all  the  mechanics 
of  preparation  for  a  production  would  be  set  in  mo- 
tion. 

Gower's  time  was  so  taken  up  by  the  arrival  of  Mrs. 
Laird  and  her  aunt  that  he  had  quite  iprgotten  the 
scene  which  had  caused  Elinor  so  much  pain  on  the 
night  after  Mrs.  Laird's  clandestine  visit  to  New  York. 
Elinor  had  been  so  busy  superintending  matters  con- 
nected with  the  production  of  Lexham's  play  that  she, 
too,  had  not  time  to  brood  over  the  heartlessness  of 
Gower's  conduct. 

The  night  after  Mrs.  Sefton  and  her  niece  were 
comfortably  ensconced  in  a  quiet  hotel  Elinor  enter- 
tained them  in  her  rooms.  Somehow  she  did  not 
feel  in  the  least  averse  to  meeting  Mrs.  Laird.  She 
thought  she  had  lost  interest  in  her.  She  had  ex- 
plained to  Gower  how  she  found  the  tell-tale  telegram 
and  had  laid  it  on  his  desk  without  at  the  time  speaking 
of  the  matter.  Mrs.  Laird,  who  sincerely  tried  to  show 
her  much  attention  and  good  feeling,  did  not  succeed 
in  stirring  her  one  way  or  the  other.  Mrs.  Sefton 
was  delighted  to  find  Elinor  looking  so  well.  The  dear 
old  lady  did  not  know  what  new  happiness  Mrs.  Kem- 
bleton  was  experiencing  in  attending  to  the  business 
detail  of  the  new  play. 

To  Lexham  it  was  an  interesting  gathering.  He 
found  Mrs.  Laird  to  be  all  Elinor  had  said  of  her. 
Gower  was  very  happy  and  quite  naive.  He  played 
the  piano  without  persuasion,  talked  volubly,  and  sur- 
prised Lexham  with  his  knowledge  of  modern  litera- 


190  MADAME    BOHEMIA1 

ture,  his  good  taste,  and  the  catholicity  of  his  opin- 
ions. 

Mrs.  Sefton  had  settled  with  Gower  for  piano  les- 
sons. Four  lessons  a  week,  two  for  Mrs.  Laird,  two 
for  herself,  at  five  dollars  each  lesson. 

Elinor  was  a  little  disgusted  when  Gower  told  her 
about  the  arrangement  he  had  made  with  Mrs.  Sefton 
for  the  piano  lessons.  She  could  not  help  but  think  the 
terms  were  more  charitable  than  just.  Still,  she  re- 
membered that  she,  too,  had  accepted  a  much  larger 
sum  for  her  reading  than  her  work  was  worth.  Be- 
sides, she  had  by  much  strategy  and  excellent. business 
tact  got  an  advance  royalty  of  five  hundred  dollars  from 
the  theatre  manager  on  Lexham's  play.  But  Lexham 
endorsed  the  cheque  and  handed  it  back  to  Elinor,  and 
no  argument  or  persuasion  on  her  part  could  make  him 
accept  a  part  of  it.  He  would  not  listen  to  her.  The 
money  did  not  accrue  to  him.  She  had  saved  his  life, 
influenced  him,  had  been  the  sole  cause  of  the  play's 
existence.  Besides,  he  would  not  know  what  to  do 
with  so  much  money.  He  insisted  and  she  had  to 
obey. 

The  public  went  to  see  "  The  Fame  of  Fools,"  and 
the  theatre  was  well  filled  for  nine  weeks,  when  the 
weather  became  so  hot  and  humid  that  the  piece  was 
taken  off  with  the  intention  of  resuming  the  run  in 
August. 

Elinor  and  Gower  spent  two  weeks  with  Mrs.  Sefton 
at  her  cottage  near  the  sea.  Gower  was  full  of  work. 
He  had  found  a  libretto  to  his  liking.  Elinor  had  lost 
much  of  her  sensitiveness,  and  nothing  more  than 
formal  words  of  greeting  and  ordinary  conversation 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  191 

passed  between  her  and  Gower.  Mrs.  Laird  tried  in 
many  ways  to  show  how  sincerely  she  loved  her,  but 
a  peculiar  reserve  was  at  the  bottom  of  all  her  ways 
which  Mrs.  Laird  could  never  quite  fathom.  The 
younger  woman  appreciated  the  other's  tact  and  reti- 
cence, and  began  in  some  measure  to  rely  on  Elinor's 
knowledge  of  a  world,  distant  and  strange,  which  was 
beyond  her  own  ken  and  experience.  Mrs.  Sefton 
never  tired  of  letting  Elinor  know  how  fond  she  was 
of  her  charming  companion,  and  Elinor  now  loved  the 
dear  old  lady  for  all  her  sweet  sympathy  and  kindness. 
During  the  summer  holiday  a  mutual  understanding 
seemed  to  exist,  which,  without  either  word  or  look 
from  one  another,  held  them  all  in  a  deep  esteem  which 
friendship  seldom  ripens  so  soon.  There  was  an  under- 
standing quite  apart  from  the  usual  intercourse  of 
companionship,  and  it  was  noticeable  that  Mrs.  Laird 
in  talking  alone  with  Elinor  would  not  mention  Gower's 
name  only  in  the  most  casual  manner.  She  never 
showed  that  she  took  any  more  than  the  remote  interest 
in  him  that  refined  but  phlegmatic  people  take  in  men 
who  do  something  artistic.  No  undue  enthusiasm,  no 
exceeding  interest,  escaped  her  by  word  or  mood  during 
the  holiday.  And  though  Mrs.  Sefton  felt  that  Gower 
and  her  niece  were  something  more  than  friends,  she 
never  referred  to  the  matter  when  alone  with  Elinor, 
in  whom  her  confidence  was  absolute. 

Gower  was  hard  at  work  scoring  his  new  opera,  and 
love,  no  matter  how  great,  could  not  distract  him,  or 
for  any  length  of  time  woo  him  from  his  work. 

After  the  excitement  and  long  rehearsals  of  his  play 
Lexham  was  far  from  well.  He  lived  in  the  little  room 


IQ2  MADAME    BOHEMIA1 

at  the  top  of  Mrs.  Pollack's  house  till  she  had  a  larger 
room  vacant.  Near  the  end  of  the  first  run  of  his  play 
he  was  comfortably  lodged  in  a  fine  large  room  just 
above  Elinor's.  He  had  received  two  orders  for  new 
plays  from  different  managers,  but  owing  to  his  still 
precarious  state  of  health,  Brydone  advised  him  to  de- 
cline any  such  work  of  excitement.  Lexham  was  by 
no  means  eager  to  accept  the  offers,  which  were  gener- 
ous enough,  for  the  nine  weeks'  royalties  at  five  per 
cent,  had  yielded  a  considerable  sum,  and  after  sharing 
with  Elinor  two  thousand  dollars  he  had  a  sufficient 
sum  to  permit  of  a  long  holiday. 

To  the  grand  Adirondacks  he  went  early  in  July, 
and  among  those  beautiful  mountains  and  lakes  he 
spent  eight  weeks.  Elinor  and  Gower  paid  him  a  visit 
and  stayed  several  days.  She  had  given  her  tour  of 
readings  and  was  now  free  of  debt.  It  had  long  been 
Lexham's  great  desire  to  write  a  novel  on  his  experi- 
ences in  New  York,  and  that  novel  which  afterwards 
made  his  name  famous  for  a  few  years  was  started 
during  that  holiday  in  the  Adirondacks.  Never  had  he 
known  so  much  peace  and  real  enjoyment.  The  far-off 
scenes  of  his  terrible  vicissitudes  were  easily  recalled, 
and  though  they  had  lost  most  of  their  poignancy,  he 
still  could  live  them  over  again  without  the  physical 
pain  they  were  wont  to  cause  when  memory  vividly 
pictured  them  to  him  before  he  was  free  from  their 
environment.  In  no  place  could  he  have  found  all 
he  yearned  for  in  himself  and  Nature  so  closely  allied 
as  in  that  beautiful  district.  We  take  our  experiences 
subconsciously  with  us,  and  the  benefit  we  derive  from 
recollection  largely  depends  on  the  intellectual  work- 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  193 

ing  of  our  minds.  Many  forget  and  seldom  recall  till 
chance  leads  them  to  the  very  place  of  suffering,  and 
even  then  they  hardly  understand  what  it  is  that  stirs 
within  them. 

For  one  whole  week  Lexham  roamed  far  and  wide 
up  and  down  mountains,  and  dreamed  for  long  hours 
in  drifting  boats,  but  could  not  bring  himself  to  start 
the  first  chapter  of  the  book  he  had  planned  years  be- 
fore, when  for  sheer  lack  of  confidence  he  stifled  all 
desire  to  write  a  serious  book  of  great  length.  It  was 
late  one  beautiful  night  when  he  returned  to  his  hotel 
after  a  long  day  in  the  woods.  He  was  tired  but  not 
fatigued  when  he  entered  his  little  room  on  the  top 
floor  of  the  hotel,  which  was  built  upon  the  crest  of 
a  high  hill.  Below,  a  sleeping  lake  lay  full  of  sombre 
shadows  of  the  wild  scene  round  about.  From  his 
window  he  could  see  the  distant  shore.  A  great  sense 
of  loneliness  fell  upon  him.  He  had  put  out  the  light 
in  his  room,  and  there  near  the  window  he  sat.  He 
was  deeply  stirred  by  the  beauty  of  the  scene  and  the 
vastness  of  it  all.  All  that  was  beyond!  All  he  had 
left  behind!  The  years  of  travail  and  penury,  years 
of  loneliness  in  the  midst  of  a  great  city.  How  strange'! 
Was  Man  always  lonely?  Nature  smiles  and  frowns 
upon  the  exertions  of  the  race,  and  though  invention 
continues  to  progress  for  man's  acquired  needs  till  at 
last  he  lives  not  only  by  machinery  but  as  a  machine, 
Nature  will  in  itself  remain  unimpaired,  superb,  su- 
preme. 

Lexham  sought  in  himself  for  something  of  the 
great  Spirit  which  he  always  felt  to  be  in  Nature  when 
contemplation  of  such  a  scene  as  that  which  now  lay 

13 


194  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

before  him  stirred  his  deepest  impulses.  The  great 
strength  of  the  one,  silent  and  formidable,  and  the 
weakness  of  the  other,  fretful  and  perverse.  Strange, 
strange!  And  yet  he  had  read  not  many  days  before 
that  once,  long  years  ago,  a  traveller  stood  and  looked 
upon  a  scene  of  similar  beauty.  The  sun  was  setting 
and  not  a  breath  of  air  stirred  a  leaf.  All  was  still, 
when  suddenly  an  Indian  appeared  upon  the  crest  of 
a  distant  hill,  and  though  the  traveller's  whole  desire 
had  been  to  contemplate  the  view  as  it  was  before  the 
Indian  came,  he  found  his  eyes  could  dwell  only  on 
the  small  majestic  figure,  far  off,  that  dominated  all 
and  stole  his  attention  from  the  beauty  at  which  he  had 
a  moment  before  marvelled. 

That  night  he  began  to  write,  and  at  dawn  he  had 
almost  finished  his  first  chapter.  He  was  afraid  to 
rest  lest  he  should  lose  the  thread  and  the  mood.  He 
was  afraid  to  re-read  what  he  had  written  lest  the  little 
confidence  he  had  gained  should  fail  him.  In  a  min- 
gled state  of  exultation  and  fear  he  worked  assidu- 
ously for  ten  or  twelve  days.  When  Elinor  and  Gower 
came  he  was  afraid  to  speak  of  what  he  had  done, 
and  they  left  without  any  knowledge  of  his  work.  But 
he  was  surprised  at  the  rapidity  of  his  progress,  and 
that  very  rapidity  often  caused  him  to  think  ill  of  what 
was  done.  He  did  not  stop  to  turn  and  polish  start- 
ling phrases.  There  was  no  straining  after  style.  No, 
there  was  too  much  dramatic  incident  for  him  to 
heed  anything  but  the  perspicuity  of  the  narrative. 
If  he  had  halted  to  think  of  fine  literary  qualities 
he  would  have  been  lost.  All  this  He  realised  and 
feared. 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  195 

When  he  left  the  Adirondacks  he  had  completed 
quite  half  of  his  novel. 

"  The  Fame  of  Fools"  was  revived  in  August,  and 
though  several  weeks  passed  before  the  theatre  was  as 
well  filled  at  each  performance  as  it  was  during  the 
preliminary  season,  the  play  at  length  gained  in  popu- 
larity and  a  successful  run  of  some  months  was  as- 
sured. 

It  was  midwinter  when  Lexham  finished  his  novel. 
He  had  learned  to  re-read  his  work  with  care,  but  the 
more  he  perused  the  pages  of  his  manuscript  the  less 
he  liked  his  first  effort.  One  night  after  spending 
many  hours  of  revision  he  fell  into  an  utterly  de- 
spondent mood.  He  had  corrected  little,  yet  he  im- 
agined there  was  so  much  to  change.  It  all  seemed  so 
trite,  so  ordinary,  but  do  what  he  would  he  could  not 
see  how  he  could  better  it.  His  mood  became  so 
desperate  that  he  was  on  the  point  of  burning  the 
whole  manuscript  when  Elinor  knocked  on  his  door. 
He  threw  the  unbound  pages  on  a  table. 

Six  months  free  from  the  worries  of  debt  and  all 
the  vexatious  matters  concerning  Gower  which  had 
beset  her  during  the  spring  and  summer  had  worked  a 
great  change  in  Elinor.  She  now  looked  not  a  day 
older  than  twenty-six  or  twenty-eight.  Her  great 
eyes  had  regained  their  brightness,  her  beautiful  com- 
plexion had  returned  to  set  off  her  fine  features.  Lex- 
ham  remembered  that  she  looked  thin  and  worn  after 
the  production  of  his  play,  but  now,  as  he  looked  upon 
her,  he  could  not  help  but  notice  that  her  figure  was 
quite  as  firm,  warm,  and  graceful  as  it  was  on  that 
night  when  Gower  urged  him  to  meet  her.  A  little  more 


196  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

than  a  year  had  passed,  and  what  a  year  of  change  it 
had  been !  Poverty,  illness,  success,  and  peace.  Was 
it  all  real?  Did  it  all  take  place?  Perhaps  all  those 
events,  he  thought,  would  seem  trite  if  he  set  them 
down,  as  he  had  set  down  the  early  struggles  of  his 
American  experiences.  What  is  that  peculiar  glamour 
which  enhances  our  life's  history  when  it  lives  only  in 
the  mind?  Is  it  the  physical  pain  and  joy  revived  by 
memory  which  awakens  the  past  and  makes  it  all  alive 
again?  Does  that  history  so  near  and  vivid  under 
mental  reminiscence  lose  its  throb  and  reality  when 
the  autobiographer  sets  to  work?  Who  can  tell? 

"  Well,  Gilbert,  I  have  waited  since  early  morning 
for  a  glimpse  of  you,  but  as  the  recluse  wouldn't  come 
out,  the  pilgrim  has  had  to  resort  to  this  intrusion. 
Why  have  you  shut  yourself  up  so  much  of  late,  eh?" 

"  I've  been  idiot  enough  to  try  to  write  a  novel, 
and " 

"What?  A  novel?  Gilbert!"  she  ejaculated,  all 
her  face  full  of  wonder  and  pleasant  surprise. 

"  Yes,  a  novel,  and  I've  come  to  the  conclusion  that 
all  my  labour  has  been  wasted.  It's  a  stodgy,  trite 
affair.  I  felt  like  burning  the  thing  just  before  you 
came  in." 

"Where  is  it?"   she  eagerly  asked. 

He  nodded  his  head  in  the  direction  of  the  table 
on  which  he  had  thrown  his  manuscript  in  disgust. 
She  picked  it  up,  threw  herself  into  a  chair  before  the 
fire,  and  began  to  read  the  first  chapter. 

"  Don't  attempt  to  read  it,  Elinor,"  he  pleaded ;  "  I'm 
sure  you  will  not  like  it." 

She  raised  her  hand  in  remonstrance,  but  did  not 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  197 

speak  nor  raise  her  eyes  from  the  closely-written 
pages. 

In  silence  they  sat  near  each  other  for  many  minutes. 
Page  after  page  she  read,  swiftly  comprehending  every 
sentence,  and  never  halting  at  what  he  imagined  were 
obscure  passages. 

An  hour  passed,  and  still  in  silence  she  read  on  and 
on.  She  broke  the  spell  by  stretching  out  her  hand  and 
laying  it  on  his  arm. 

"  Why  didn't  you  tell  me  you  were  at  work  on 
this?"  she  asked. 

"  I  was  afraid  of  it.  I  thought  I  would  first  see  what 
it  was  worth  before  letting  you  know,"  he  confessed. 
"  If  you  had  not  come  in  I  should  never  have  men- 
tioned it." 

"  How  foolish  you  are,  Gilbert !  And  you  would 
have  let  me  go  in  ignorance  of  what  you  have  done? 
When  will  you  gain  some  confidence  and  get  over  your 
absurd  shyness?" 

"  Shyness !  Confidence !  Elinor,  if  you  could  know 
what  I  suffer  the  moment  I  put  my  pen  to  paper  you 
would  in  some  measure  understand  why  I  did  not  tell 
you  I  was  at  work  on  that.  It  is  no  use,  I  can't  get 
wholly  over  the  old  feeling  of  incompetence,  and  do 
what  I  will  I'm  baffled  on  every  hand  by  difficulties 
of  my  own  making." 

"  But  you  were  not  at  all  discouraged  or  disap- 
pointed when  you  read  the  criticisms  of  your  play." 

"  Oh,  that  was  nothing.  This  is  quite  a  different 
matter.  I  wish  I  were  either  hero  or  coward  enough 
to  burn  it." 

"Burn  it?     Gilbert,  what  is  the  matter  with  you? 


198  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

What  do  you  want  ?  I'm  sure  the  book  is  all  you  pre- 
tend it  to  be,  and  as  for  the  manner  in  which  it  is 
written,  that  is  all  right,  I'll  swear,  for  in  it  there  is  a 
freshness,  a  grip  which  I  have  not  found  in  the  ma- 
jority of  books  written  during  the  past  ten  years. 
Have  patience,  dear." 

"Ah,  you're  biassed,  Elinor.  You  know  all  I  mean, 
but  this  is  presumably  written  to  be  read  by  people 
who  know  no  more  about  me  and  my  life  than  I  know; 
of  Confucius." 

She  was  really  surprised  at  his  mood,  for  though  she 
had  given  only  a  cursory  glance  through  several  chap- 
ters, she  was  sure  of  a  wealth  of  novel  ideas,  real  inci- 
dents, and  a  clear,  simple  style.  She  did  not  know  what 
to  say  to  encourage  him.  She  was  at  a  loss  to  under- 
stand his  case.  He  looked  so  despondent  and  tired  as  he 
sat  before  the  fire,  his  head  bent  and  his  hand  tightly 
clasped  round  his  knees;  and  she  had  thought  the  old 
bitterness  and  fear  of  himself  had  gone.  After  all  her 
proud  imaginings  was  he  to  fail  from  sheer  lack  of 
confidence  and  the  encouragement  she  had  believed  her 
undeclared  love  for  him  was  strong  enough  to  give? 
Was  all  her  dream  of  faith  in  him  to  vanish  for  very 
want  of  all  she  felt  was  hers  to  yield?  She  began  to 
upbraid  herself  for  leaving  him  since  the  summer  so 
much  alone.  She  should  have  watched  him,  taken 
more  interest,  shown  that  interest,  and  not  have  waited 
for  him  to  come  to  her.  Day  after  day  she  had  crushed 
each  inclination  since  that  night  when  she  looked  into 
his  eyes  and  learned  that  she  loved  him,  each  inclination 
to  go  to  him,  be  near  him,  speak  to  him.  But  no,  she 
stayed  in  her  room  below  and  listened  to  his  footfall 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  199 

on  the  floor  above,  sure  in  her  heart  that  he  would 
rather  not  be  in  any  way  distracted.  It  was  this  very 
love  which  had  kept  her  silent  when  she  yearned  to 
ask  him  why  she  had  of  late  seen  so  little  of  him,  why 
he  had  shut  himself  up,  and  why  he  had  so  little  to 
speak  of  when  they  met 

Poor  Elinor,  so  careful  of  her  own  sweet  secret, 
little  knew  of  the  secret  which  was  in  Lexham's  heart, 
fighting  to  be  free,  interrupting  his  work  and  dreams, 
agitating  him,  making  him  more  and  more  "  shy"  (as 
Elinor  called  him  for  his  reserve)  and  causing  him 
hours  and  days  of  despair.  She  had  at  first  thought 
he,  too,  that  night  when  she  took  the  telegram  up  to 
his  room,  had  felt  the  same  thrill  which  had  stirred 
her.  But  owing  to  his  reticence  she  had  at  last  to 
conclude  that  she  had  been  mistaken. 

Both  their  lives  had  so  far  been  devoid  of  great  love. 
Elinor  had  never  known  any  other  love  but  that  she 
felt  and  gave  to  Gower  when  he  was  a  boy.  Lexham's 
life  had  been  too  full  of  abject  poverty  and  woe  to 
admit  of  any  real  lasting  passion.  He  had  been  too 
conscious  of  his  penury  and  appearance  ever  to  think 
of  searching  for  a  sympathetic  heart.  True,  he  had 
confessed  to  Elinor  that  he  once  loved,  but  that  was 
not  a  startling  affair.  To  Lexham  love  was  no  light 
matter  to  be  merely  nurtured  for  a  short  season  of 
gaiety.  To  him  love  was  a  serious  thing,  and  he  knew, 
for  his  own  peace  of  mind's  sake,  that  he  should  rigor- 
ously avoid  any  entanglement  which  might  lead  to 
heart-aches  and  misery. 

"Is  the  novel  finished,  Gilbert?"  she  asked,  after 
a  long  silence. 


200  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

"  I  think  so.  I've  done  all  I'm  capable  of  doing  to 
it,"  he  said. 

"  Then  let  me  take  it  away  and  read  it,  will  you  ?" 

"  Yes,  do ;  I  shall  be  glad  to  lose  sight  of  it.  I  fear 
it,  and  yet  I  can't  keep  away  from  it." 

She  arose  and  replaced  the  pages. 

"Are  you  going  out  to-night  ?"  she  asked,  when  she 
reached  the  door. 

"  No ;  it  is  ten  o'clock.  I  shall  read  a  bit.  Good- 
night, Elinor." 

"  Good-night,  Gilbert." 

She  went  down  to  her  room  and  read,  from  the  place 
where  she  had  broken  off,  for  two  hours.  For  a  mo- 
ment she  laid  the  manuscript  aside  to  put  some  coal 
on  the  fire,  which  had  nearly  gone  out.  She  heard 
Gower  moving  about  in  the  next  room.  She  did  not 
want  to  be  disturbed,  so  she  made  her  bed  ready  in 
case  he  should  look  in,  which  he  had  seldom  done  of 
late  before  retiring.  She  slipped  on  a  dressing-gown 
and  settled  down  in  her  chair  to  finish  the  manuscript. 
She  read  till  half-past  one,  when  to  her  annoyance 
she  could  not  find  two  missing  pages.  She  searched 
her  room  without  success.  Then  she  concluded  that 
she  had  perhaps  not  gathered  up  all  the  pages  that  lay 
on  the  author's  table  in  the  room  above.  She  tried 
to  read  on,  but  failed  to  pick  up  the  thread  which  the 
missing  pages  had  severed.  Elinor  listened,  but  not 
a  sound  could  she  hear  from  Gower's  room  or  the 
room  above.  She  wondered  if  Lexham  had  retired  for 
the  night.  The  more  she  thought  about  the  missing 
pages  the  greater  became  her  annoyance,  till  at  length 
she  determined  to  go  up  to  Lexham  and  ask  him  to 


MADAME    BOHEMIA!  201 

find  them.  There  was  no  response  when  she  tapped 
lightly  on  his  door.  She  turned  the  handle  and  pushed 
it  open.  To  her  surprise  the  student's  lamp  on  his 
desk  was  alight.  She  entered  and  half-closed  the  door. 
Gathering  her  dressing-gown  closely  round  her,  she 
walked  into  the  room,  and  saw  Lexham  fast  asleep  in 
his  chair  before  the  fire.  She  stood  for  a  few  moments 
watching  the  rise  and  fall  of  his  breast.  The  desire 
to  go  to  him  and  kneel  at  his  side  was  more  than  she 
could  withstand.  Quietly  she  crept  near  him,  when 
suddenly  he  opened  his  eyes  and  looked  quickly  up. 

"  Elinor !"  he  exclaimed,  in  a  moment  fully  awake. 

"  Gilbert,  I'm  so  sorry  I've  disturbed  you,  but  I 
can't  find  pages  190  and  191.  I  think  they  must  be 
somewhere  on  the  table  or  on  your  desk." 

He  had  risen  and  stood  looking  at  her  searching 
the  table.  She  could  not  understand  why  she  felt  so 
embarrassed. 

"  Have  you  read  so  far?"  he  asked. 

"  Yes,  and  I  did  want  to  finish  the  first  reading  be- 
fore going  to  bed.  Have  you  no  idea  where  those 
pages  can  be?" 

"  Yes ;  I  think  they  are  somewhere  on  my  deslc. 
But  don't  try  to  read  any  more  to-night.  I'll  find  the 
pages  for  you  to-morrow.  It's  not  worth  so  much 
bother." 

He  sank  into  his  chair  and  leaned  his  head  upon  his 
hands.  But  before  he  could  realise  it  she  had  flung 
herself  on  her  knees  at  his  feet  and  had  taken  him  in 
her  arms  and  kissed  him. 

"  Elinor !"  he  cried,  throwing  his  arms  around  her. 
In  his  tight  embrace  he  held  her,  as  if  a  thousand 


202  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

hands  were  trying  to  take  her  from  him.  The  joy  of 
feeling  her  warm,  firm  breast  crushed  against  his  own 
was  enough  for  a  world  of  suffering. 

"  When  did  you  first  realise  you  loved  me,  Gilbert  ?" 
she  murmured,  without  raising  her  head. 

"  Oh,  months  ago " 

"  That  night  when  I  came  up  with  the  telegram  after 
I  returned  from  Boston?"  she  asked,  so  eagerly. 

"  Yes,  that  night,"  he  said. 

"  That  was  the  night  when  I  first  felt  I  really  loved 
you." 

"And  do  you  love  me,  Elinor?"  he  whispered. 

"  Love  you !  How  I  have  longed  for  this  moment ! 
and  now  I'm  poor  of  words  to  tell  you  how  deeply  I 
love  you.  I  wonder  if  all  people  who  love  yearn  as 
I  have  yearned  for  you;  and  you  have  loved  me  all 

this  time,  Gilbert !" 

******** 

About  ten  o'clock  the  next  morning  Elinor,  dressed 
for  the  street,  stood  in  Lexham's  room  with  a  neatly- 
made  parcel  in  her  hands.  It  was  the  manuscript  of 
his  novel. 

"  I  shan't  be  long,  Gilbert.  I'm  sure  Jane  Dalston 
knows  a  good  publisher.  She'll  give  me  a  letter  of 
introduction,  I  know,"  Elinor  said,  as  she  went  towards 
the  door. 

"Will  you  never  tire  of  doing  so  much  for  me?" 
he  asked,  his  eyes  full  of  love. 

She  returned  to  him  and  put  down  the  parcel. 

"  Gilbert,  that  is  impossible.  Tire  of  doing  ser- 
vices for  you?  All  my  life  shall  be  devoted  to  you. 
How  happy  I  am!  But  there,  I  must  be  practical 


MADAME   BOHEMIA  203 

for  an  hour  or  so,  else  I  shan't  catch  Jane,"  she  said 
brightly,  taking  up  the  parcel. 

"  Let  me  go  with  you,"  he  said,  taking  her  again  in 
his  arms  and  kissing  her. 

"  No,  dear ;    I  want  to  do  this.     You  have  done 

your  share  in  writing  it." 

******** 

When  Elinor  left  Jane  Dalston's  house  she  had  a 
letter  of  introduction  addressed  to  Mr.  Adam  Old- 
castle,  Washington  Square,  City. 


CHAPTER   XVI 

ELINOR  noticed  when  she  reached  Oldcastle's  house 
that  there  were  two  entrances,  one  on  Washington 
Square,  the  other  round  the  corner  on  a  side  street.  It 
was  at  the  door  of  the  former  she  stood  and  rang  the 
bell;  it  sounded  like  a  knell  foreboding  catastrophe. 
It  was  a  mournful  hollow  sound  that  echoed  through 
the  house  and  startled  Elinor.  She  felt  inclined  to 
turn  and  not  deliver  the  letter  of  introduction.  There 
seemed  to  her  to  be  something  sinister  about  the  house. 
Its  exterior  had  a  neglected  look,  and  the  windows 
were  not  warmly  draped  and  curtained.  An  elderly; 
servant  opened  the  door. 

"Is  Mr.  Oldcastle  in?"    Elinor  asked. 

"Yes.     Will  you  come  in,  please?" 

The  servant  showed  her  into  a  large  room  at  the 
back  of  the  house.  One  window  overlooked  the  gar- 
den, another  of  stained  glass  was  on  the  side  street. 
With  all  the  glass  the  room  was  dark.  There  were 
three  doors, — that  by  which  she  entered  from  the  hall, 
another  which,  perhaps,  led  to  an  inner  room,  then  a 
door,  larger  than  the  others,  slightly  ajar,  which  opened 
on  a  passage  on  a  flight  of  stairs.  This  Elinor  thought 
was  the  entrance  from  the  side  street. 

After  a  few  minutes  passed  a  beautiful  young  girl 
entered  the  room. 

"  Mrs.  Kembleton,  my  grandfather  is  engaged,  but 
I  don't  think  he  will  be  long,"  she  said  in  a  soft,  rich 
voice,  full  of  refinement  and  confidence. 
204 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  205 

"  Oh,  thank  you ;  I'll  wait  if  you  don't  mind," 
Elinor  said. 

"  Please  wait  I  looked  at  the  note  from  Miss  Dais- 
ton.  I  attend  to  much  of  grandfather's  business.  I'm 
sure  he  will  be  glad  to  see  you." 

They  sat  for  several  minutes  chatting  and  admiring 
each  other.  Elinor  thought  she  had  never  met  so 
sweet  a  girl,  and  Alice  was  ready  to  proclaim  Elinor 
the  most  charming  woman  it  had  been  her  lot  to  know. 

When  Adam  Oldcastle  entered  the  room  Elinor  and 
Alice  were  thoroughly  enjoying  each  other's  company. 

"  Grandfather,  Mrs.  Kembleton  has  been  so  patient 
you  must  do  all  you  can  to  grant  Miss  Dalston's  re- 
quest," Alice  said,  pushing  a  large  chair  for  her  grand- 
father near  Elinor. 

"  I  shall  be  glad  to  do  anything  for  an  old  friend  of 
Jane  Dalston's.  How  is  she?"  Oldcastle  asked. 

"  Very  well,  but  busier  than  usual,"  Elinor  replied. 

"  We  seldom  see  her  now,  very  seldom,"  the  old 
publisher  said,  "  and  we  are  great  home  people,  Alice 
and  I.  What  is  the  novel  for  which  you  wish  to  find 
a  publisher?" 

"  It  is  a  novel  based  on  the  American  experiences 
of  a  young  Englishman,"  Elinor  began. 

"Ah,  that  should  be  interesting,"  Oldcastle  re- 
marked. 

"  It  is  written  by  Mr.  Lexham,  the  author  of  '  The 
Fame  of  Fools/  a  piece  now  being  played  at  one  of 
the  theatres." 

"  Indeed !  I've  not  been  in  a  theatre  since  Macready 
played  here  a  good  many  years  ago.  Now  let  me  see, 
— yes.  There  is  George  Blackston.  Alice,  my  child, 


206  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

bring  pen  and  paper;  we'll  give  Mrs.  Kembleton  a 
letter  to  George  Blackston." 

Alice  was  not  long  gone.  She  drew  a  chair  up  to 
the  table  and  prepared  to  write. 

"  What  should  we  say,  grandfather  ?"   Alice  asked. 

"  Oh,  I'll  write  the  letter,  Alice.  My  age  is  no  ex- 
cuse for  lack  of  gallantry.  Dear  me,  how  dark  it  is! 
Where  are  my  glasses,  child?" 

Alice  found  his  spectacles,  and  then  with  Elinor  she 
withdrew  to  the  window.  The  room  which  at  first 
seemed  gloomy  to  Elinor  now  had  quite  another  aspect. 
Alice's  sweet  presence  had  brought  something  of  spring 
into  the  cheerless  apartment,  which  was  unaccountably 
changed.  The  kind  old  man  at  the  table  writing  added 
immeasurably  to  the  transformation  which  had  taken 
place. 

"  Here,  Mrs.  Kembleton,  is  a  letter  to  my  friend, 
George  Blackston.  He  will  read  your  manuscript, 
I'm  sure,"  Oldcastle  said,  handing  Elinor  the  intro- 
duction. 

"  How  good  of  you  to  be  so  kind  to  a  stranger !" 
Elinor  said. 

"  No  friend  of  Jane  Dalston's  is  a  stranger  after 
we  have  once  met.  Good-bye  and  good  luck  to  you," 
he  said,  taking  her  hand  and  giving  it  a  hearty  shake. 

"  Do  come  again,  Mrs.  Kembleton.  Don't  be  afraid 
of  our  solemn-looking  old  house,"  Alice  said,  accom- 
panying Elinor  to  the  door. 

With  the  parcel  tucked  closely  under  her  arm,  Eli- 
nor, far  happier  than  she  was  when  she  entered  Old- 
castle's  house,  walked  briskly  towards  Astor  Place. 
Her  interview  with  Mr.  Blackston  was  short.  He  was 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  207, 

kind  to  her,  and  readily  accepted  the  manuscript,  which 
he  promised  to  read  at  once.  She  was  surprised  when 
he  told  her  that  he  had  twice  seen  Lexham's  play,  and 
that  the  book  should  be  published  while  the  author's 
name  was  in  the  public's  mind.  When  she  left  him  she 
was  not  really  sure  whether  he  had  accepted  the  manu- 
script, unread,  for  publication  or  not. 

She  hastened  home,  and  found  the  author  not  in  the 
least  eager  to  hear  what  success  she  had  met  with. 
He  was  dressed  for  the  street. 

"  Well,  Gilbert,  I  must  say  you  are  a  cool  fellow. 
Don't  you  care  whether  I've  lost  your  manuscript  or 
found  a  publisher  for  it?" 

"I  don't  know,  dear.  What  would  it  matter?  I 
know  it  could  now  be  written  ten  times  better." 

"  Oh,  indeed !  Well,  you  silly  coward,  I  don't  think 
you'll  have  the  chance  of  rewriting  it.  It's  with  Mr. 
Blackston,  and  I  think  he  has  half  made  up  his  mind 
to  take  it." 

"  What !  Ah,  you're  joking.  He  wouldn't  be  such 
a  fool.  He'll  think  differently  when  he  has  read  it. 
But  you  are  the  kindest  of  all  dear  friends,  Elinor." 

"  Is  that  all  ?  No,  no,  Gilbert,  dear,  I  didn't  mean 
that." 

His  devotion  and  gratitude  were  too  great  and  deep 
for  him  to  show  any  demonstrative  love.  She  felt 
this,  and  because  of  it  she  tried  to  laugh  him  out  of 
his  serious  manner.  She  thought  he  would  never  ap- 
proach her  without  a  loving  glance  of  invitation.  When 
his  arms  were  about  her,  his  embrace  was  at  once  so 
strong  and  so  tender  that  she  could  not  but  think  he 
was  under  some  restraint.  He  was.  Each  time  he 


208  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

kissed  her  he  felt  under  an  eternal  obligation  to  her. 
Many  times  during  the  day  he  was  on  the  point  of  tell- 
ing her  all  this,  but  the  same  feeling  kept  him  silent,  for 
he  knew  there  was  no  real  reason  for  it. 

She  was  so  happy,  demonstrative,  and  impulsive. 
His  was  a  joy  too  deep  for  words  and  show. 

They  left  the  house  and  walked  as  far  as  Central 
Park.  They  had  reached  a  rocky  place  on  a  hill  which 
overlooked  a  small  lake  at  the  northern  extremity  of 
the  Park.  It  was  Lexham's  favourite  spot.  There 
was  a  bench  half-hidden  in  a  recess  under  a  ledge, 
and  at  this  place  he  thought  of  resting  for  a  few 
minutes.  When  he  looked  into  the  little  cave  where 
the  bench  was,  he  saw  a  young  man  stretched  out  on 
it.  The  man  had  evidently  been  asleep.  He  yawned 
as  he  stared  at  Lexham,  who  thought  he  knew  the 
fellow.  But  something  pitiable  in  the  appearance  of 
the  man  led  Lexham  to  believe  he  needed  more  than 
recognition, — real  charity  and  care.  In  that  moment 
the  one  forgot  to  identify  the  other.  To  Lexham  the 
case  was  an  obvious  one.  The  man  looked  ill  and 
hungry.  Elinor  stood  aloof. 

"  Sorry  I  disturbed  you,"  Lexham  said. 

"  Not  at  all.  Rather  tired,  must  have  fallen 
asleep." 

When  he  had  heard  the  man's  voice  Lexham  was 
quite  sure  he  knew  him.  But  where  he  had  met  him 
and  what  his  name  he  could  not  recollect. 

"  I  think  I  know  you,"  Lexham  remarked. 

"  Do  you  ?  Perhaps  so.  Know  a  lot  of  people,  but 
not  at  present." 

"  I  just  wanted  to  have  a  look  at  my  old  seat.     This 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  209 

at  one  time  was  my  favourite  retreat  when  I  was  hun- 
gry and  tired." 

"  That  so  ?  Not  so  bad  for  a  rest,  but  the  very 
devil  of  a  place  to  find  a  meal.  The  squirrels  get  all 
the  nuts." 

"  Have  a  bite  with  me  ?"  Lexham  dropped  into  the 
old  way  of  speaking. 

"  No,  thanks." 

"  Nice  little  restaurant  just  over  there  on  the  ave- 
nue." 

"  You're  kind,  but  mistaken ;  I'm  tired,  not  hungry." 

"  You  understand,  I've  got  it  if  you  want  it,"  Lex- 
ham  said,  with  a  significant  gesture  and  nod.  "  Five 
be  of  any  use  to  you?" 

"  No  good  to  me  at  present.     I  don't  crave  food." 

"Ah!  Pity,  that.  Should  like  to  fix  up  you  for 
a  while.  Good-bye." 

Elinor  looked  in  when  she  heard  Lexham  say 
"  Good-bye." 

The  man  started  when  he  looked  at  her  face.  Started 
and  passed  his  hand  across  his  eyes.  Looked  again, 
and  seemed  to  recall  in  a  way  where  he  had  seen  her. 
But  some  vague  memory  faded  as  it  dawned,  for  he 
shook  his  head  and  half-turned  his  back  on  her  and 
Lexham.  They  took  the  hint  and  left  him  to  himself. 

"  Who  was  it?"  she  asked,  when  they  had  gone  a 
little  way  down  the  path. 

"  I'm  sure  I  know  him,  Elinor,  but  I  can't  remember 
his  name  or  where  I've  seen  him.  Poor  chap,  I've  a 
good  mind  to  go  back  and  make  him  come  with  us  to 
a  restaurant." 

"Do  you  think  he  needs  food?" 

14 


210  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

"  I'm  afraid  so.  That  night  Cyril  met  me,  a  year 

ago,  in  Guarini's  dive "  he  stopped  speaking  and 

stood  still.  "  Drake !"  he  cried.  "  It  was  Drake." 

"  Drake,"  she  repeated. 

"  Yes,  Drake.  I  thought  I  knew  his  face  and  that 
curt  way  of  speaking.  Wait,  Elinor;  sit  down;  I'll 
run  back." 

"  But  are  you  sure,  Gilbert  ?"  she  asked,  as  he  led 
her  to  a  seat. 

"  Yes,  I'm  sure.  But,  Drake  or  no  Drake,  the  fellow 
shall  eat." 

He  ran  back,  but  found  the  seat  in  the  cave  vacant. 
He  looked  up  and  down  the  paths  which  branched 
off  in  different  directions  but  could  see  no  one  about. 
Several  times  he  called  in  a  loud  voice  Drake's  name, 
but  no  reply  came  back.  Deeply  disappointed  Lexham 
returned  to  Elinor. 

"  I  heard  you  calling,"  she  said ;  "  couldn't  you 
find  him,  dear?" 

"  No ;   he  had  disappeared." 

"  I  should  have  liked  to  see  him.  Was  he  the  Drake 
you  met  that  night  at  Guarini's?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Um !     He  was  our  secretary  years  ago." 

What  had  occurred  that  night  when  Lexham  met 
Gower  and  Drake  in  the  restaurant  was  not  now  all 
clear  to  him.  He  knew  that  something  was  said  about 
Elinor's  late  husband  which  Gower  resented,  but 
what  the  import  of  it  was  he  could  not  tell.  Since 
that  New  Year's  night  he  had  thought  no  more  of  the 
strange  meeting.  His  long  illness  and  sudden  change 
to  fortune  had  almost  dissipated  the  memory  of  it. 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  211 

Elinor  seldom  thought  of  the  past.  In  every  way 
she  tried  to  avoid  any  reference  to  her  husband.  Those 
years  of  her  early  married  life  were  too  full  of  painful 
memories.  Gower  never  spoke  of  the  past,  and  Jane 
Dalston  at  all  times  observed  a  strict  silence.  There 
were  no  other  people  who  knew  much  about  Elinor's 
history  before  she  came  at  last  to  settle  in  America. 
Lexham  did  not  even  know  of  her  short  career  as  a 
singer.  He  had  met  Gower  as  a  boy  of  twelve  at  a 
public  school  in  England,  and  afterwards  he  ran  across 
Elinor  and  him  once  in  Dresden,  when  she  had  lost 
her  voice  and  Gower  was  studying  the  piano. 

It  was  late  that  evening  when  they  reached  home. 
Lexham  sat  with  Elinor  in  her  room  till  Gower  came 
in  about  eleven  o'clock.  He  was  excited  and  quite 
radiant.  His  cheeks  were  flushed  and  his  eyes  sparkled 
with  delight. 

"Ah,  Lexham.  Diva,  I  have  great  news.  The  New 
England  Opera  Company  has  accepted  the  opera !"  he 
cried. 

"  The  opera !"  Lexham  and  Elinor  looked  in- 
quiringly at  each  other. 

"  Yes.  Didn't  you  know  I  had  finished  it?  Oh,  a 
month  ago.  Played  it  to  them  to-day.  Expect  a  jolly 
big  advance  royalty  out  of  them.  And  I'm  to  have 
an  orchestra  of  thirty-three."  He  rattled  on,  careless 
of  their  surprise. 

"  Well,  Gower,  I  congratulate  you,"  Lexham  said. 
"  But  I  didn't  know  you  were  going  in  for  light  opera. 
I  thought  all  your  ideas  and  intentions  lay  in  the  direc- 
tion of  music-drama." 

"  So  they  do,  but  one  must  do  something  by  the 


212  MADAME   BOHEMIA 

way  of  advertisement.  Of  course  it  is  really  opera- 
comique.  Quite  after  Bizet.  The  whole  company  said 
it  was  fine,  and  all  say  it  is  sure  to  be  a  great  success. 

The  finale  of  the  second  act  is Come  into  my 

room;  I'll  play  it." 

"No,  Cyril;  it  is  too  late,"  Elinor  said;  "it  is 
nearly  midnight." 

"  Oh,  confound  it !  of  course  one  can  never  do  any- 
thing in  this  beastly  morgue." 

"  Never  mind.  Let  me  hear  it  in  the  morning," 
Lexham  interposed. 

Elinor's  remark  fell  like  a  bucket  of  cold  water  on 
Gower's  enthusiasm.  He  thrust  his  hands  into  his 
pockets  and  wandered  about  the  room  in  a  peevish  fit. 
She  was  just  about  to  rise  and  congratulate  him  when 
ne  asked  Lexham  to  go  with  him  into  his  room  to  hear 
the  finale,  but  after  his  churlishness  she  sank  again  into 
her  chair  and  took  no  further  notice  of  him. 

"  I've  got  some  notes  to  make,"  he  said,  leaving  the 
room ;  "  good-night." 

Since  the  visit  to  Mrs.  Sefton's  in  the  summer  Gower 
had  merely  looked  in  to  see  Elinor  for  a  few  moments 
after  breakfast.  She  had  kept  him  fairly  well  sup- 
plied with  money,  but  he  had  not  stopped  to  wonder 
where  she  got  it  from.  That  he  got  some  money  was 
quite  sufficient.  Whether  she  had  succeeded  in  paying 
her  debts  bothered  him  not  a  bit. 

Elinor  had  saved  a  fairly  large  sum  of  money  for 
Lexham.  She  attended  to  all  his  business.  They 
had  had  several  little  quarrels  about  the  general  ex- 
penses and  payments,  but  she  had  always  to  submit 
to  his  decision.  Every  week  she  insisted  on  him  look- 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  213 

mg  at  her  books,  which  she  kept  with  the  care  of  an 
experienced  accountant.  She  could  not  understand  his 
contempt  for  money,  and  that  he  took  little  or  no  inter- 
est in  the  fluctuation  of  his  royalties  was  incomprehen- 
sible to  her. 

One  night  he  said,  "  You  know,  dear,  I  was  so  long 
without  more  than  enough  to  buy  bread  and  mere 
shelter  that  any  appetite  I  might  have  had  for  money 
has  been  destroyed.  I  don't  really  care  what  you  do 
with  it.  It  is  yours,  Elinor.  I  am  perfectly  happy 
without  it.  You  know  my  wants  are  simple,  but  you 
don't  know  the  pleasure  it  gives  me  to  think  that  you 

have  no  more  debts  or  worries  of  that  kind." 
******** 

Lexham's  novel  met  with  much  favour  from  the 
reviewers.  He  had  struck  a  new  and  welcome  note. 
The  construction  and  characterization  were  admirable. 
He  was  surprised  and  delighted  to  find  that  the  serious- 
minded  critics  saw  in  his  work  a  commendable  subject 
treated  with  earnestness  and  care,  and  that  he  had  suc- 
ceeded where  many  novelists  of  larger  experience  had 
failed.  Strange  it  was  that  not  one  review  mentioned 
what  he  feared  was  his  great  shortcoming, — style. 

By  the  time  his  book  was  published  he  had  written 
another  play.  "  The  Fame  of  Fools"  was  very  suc- 
cessful on  tour  in  the  large  cities.  It  had  had  a  run 
of  nearly  six  months  in  New  York.  His  second  play 
was  even  a  greater  success  than  his  first.  Elinor  was 
saving  quite  a  large  sum  of  money  for  him.  He  kept 
steadily  at  work,  and  at  the  end  of  the  second  year  he 
had  completed  his  second  novel. 

Gower's  opera  had  not  been  a  success.     It  neither 


214  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

pleased  the  critics  nor  the  public.  He  was  deeply  in 
debt  and  bitterly  disappointed.  Of  Mrs.  Laird  he  had 
seen  little,  for  Mrs.  Sefton  had  suffered  from  a  severe 
illness  during  the  summer  and  her  niece's  plea  for  a 
divorce  had  not  been  brought  to  a  legal  issue. 

George  Blackston,  the  publisher,  had  become  one  of 
Lexham's  best  friends.  They  had  met  at  Oldcastle's 
house  several  times,  and  Alice  was  always  eager  to 
hear  Lexham  speak  of  Elinor,  whom  she  had  not  seen 
since  the  day  Elinor  got  from  Oldcastle  the  letter 
which  introduced  Lexham  to  the  publisher  of  his 
novels. 

Lexham  had  lived  in  Mrs.  Pollack's  house  for  more 
than  two  years,  when  one  day  Elinor  told  him  that 
their  landlady  had  decided  to  sell  out  and  leave  New 
York. 

"  I'm  so  sorry,  Elinor,"  Lexham  said ;  "  I  suppose 
it  means  we  must  look  out  for  other  rooms." 

"  I'm  afraid  so.  These  rooms.  How  I  love  them ! 
The  happiest  hours  of  my  life  have  been  spent  here. 
That  chair.  Yes,  it  was  in  that  chair  you  fell  asleep 
that  New  Year's  night  when  my  new  life  began.  And, 
Gilbert,  the  little  room  on  the  top  floor,  where  you  lay 
so  long.  There  where  I  fought  death  away  from  you. 
And  your  room  above.  How  dear  they  are!  Shall 
we  be  able  to  take  with  us  from  these  rooms  all  the 
memories  the  sight  of  the  very  furniture  awakes  ?" 

"  No,  dear ;  other  rooms  will  seem  cold  and  cheer- 
less after  these.  What  are  we  to  do?" 

"  I  don't  know.  Gilbert,  I'm  afraid  of  Cyril.  He 
hasn't  spoken  to  me  for  three  weeks.  Can  he  have 
guessed  ?" 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  215 

Her  face  was  white  and  her  lips  trembled. 

"  Elinor,  dearest,  no,"  he  cried,  taking  her  in  his 
arms. 

She  had  made  no  complaint  nor  had  given  any  sign 
of  discouragement.  Still,  he  could  not  but  wonder 
if  Gower  had  said  anything  insinuating.  He  was  so 
sure  that  their  secret  was  unknown  that  he  was  confi- 
dent Cyril  could  not  have  even  hinted  at  the  truth. 

"  Gilbert,  I've  been  so  unhappy  of  late.  Silly  fears 
have  somehow  possessed  me,  and,  besides,  I  can't  recon- 
cile myself  that  our  love  will  be  for  the  best.  I  am 
many  years  older  than  you,  and " 

"  I  shan't  listen,  dear,"  he  said ;  "  in  appearance 
and  spirit  you  are  years  younger  than  I  am.  Elinor, 
be  my  wife,  if  that  will  solve  the  difficulty.  Let  us 
go  to  the  registrar's  office.  I'm  sure,  dear,  you  will 
not  be  happy  till  we  marry.  You  have  unfortunately 
heard  me  speak  ill  of  marriage,  and  you  imagine  that 
I  do  not  approve  of  it.  Dearest,  you  were  never  so 
mistaken.  It  is  true,  I've  seen  enough  dreadful  im- 
morality practised  under  the  cloak  of  Christian  mar- 
riage to  make  one  almost  detest  the  name  of  that  cere- 
mony." 

"  It  is  no  use,  Gilbert,"  she  said,  "  you  will  not 
convince  me  that  marriage  would  be  the  wise  solution 
of  our  difficulty.  I  shall  not  marry  you,  so  don't  speak 
of  it  again." 

"  But  do  you  think  I  can  be  so  selfish  as  to  see  you 
become  unhappier.  Surely  my  life  is  entirely  yours. 
What  can  you  possibly  fear  in  marrying  me?" 

"  Fear !  Myself.  No,  Gilbert,  you  are  far  too  chiv- 
alrous to  think  only  of  your  own  happiness.  You 


2i6  MADAME   BOHEMIA 

laugh  at  me  when  I  mention  my  age,  and  believe  me, 
I  do  not  doubt  your  love,  but  oh!  how  I  should  hate 
myself  when  age's  cruel  marks  would  show  you  an 
old  wife  long  before  you  would  reach  the  prime  of 
life !  It  is  no  use.  Don't  say  any  more.  I  shall  soon 
get  over  this  squeamishness.  I'm  out  of  sorts  to-day. 
Mrs.  Pollack's  news  has  quite  upset  me." 

"  Elinor,  what  law  can  make  you  any  more  my  wife 
than  you  are  now  ?  Yet,  I  will  do  anything  you  wish. 
There  is  no  happiness  for  me  when  you  are  sad.  But, 
come,  we  shall  get  quite  morbid  if  we  let  such  matters 
worry  us  unnecessarily." 

That  night  at  Oldcastle's  house  Lexham  casually 
mentioned  that  he  would  soon  have  to  look  out  for 
new  rooms.  He  noticed  Alice's  quick  look  and  her 
grandfather's  pleasant  surprise  on  hearing  him  refer 
to  Mrs.  Pollack's  wish  to  give  up  her  house.  During 
the  evening  Oldcastle  had  an  opportunity  of  speaking 
to  Lexham. 

"  It  is  strange/'  he  said,  "  but  we  decided  this  morn- 
ing to  let  some  rooms  we  have.  You  know  this  was 
at  one  time  two  houses.  Well,  those  rooms  on  that 
side  of  the  house  have  an  entrance  from  the  side  street, 
and  they  would  make  excellent  apartments  for  a  bach- 
elor." 

"  May  I  look  at  them  ?"  Lexham  asked. 

"  Yes,  of  course ;  you  have  never  seen  them. 
Come." 

Oldcastle  led  the  way  across  the  spacious  hall  to 
the  room  in  which  Elinor  had  her  interview  with 
Alice  and  her  grandfather. 

"  This  fs  a  fine  old  room,  Lexham,"  Oldcastle  said ; 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  217 

"  of  course,  the  draperies  and  furniture  are  old.  Then 
this  room,"  opening  a  door  near  the  large  fireplace, 
"  could  be  used  for  a  bedroom.  There  is  a  bath-room 
beyond.  That  door  over  there  opens  on  to  a  stair- 
case which  leads  down  to  the  entrance  on  the  side 
street.  We  seldom  use  the  rooms  above  these,  so  you 
could  feel  as  if  you  were  in  your  own  house.  Absolute 
privacy." 

"  Yes,  I  like  the  rooms,"  Lexham  remarked. 

"  You  see  this  house  is  much  too  large  for  two  sucri 
stay-at-homes.  Alice  has  prevailed  on  me  to  let  them. 
I  should  be  delighted  to  have  you  here." 

"  It  is  very  good  of  you,  Mr.  Oldcastle.  I'll  let 
you  know  some  time  to-morrow." 

"  Oh,  there  is  not  the  least  cause  to  decide  at  once. 
No  one  shall  see  them  till  you  make  up  your  mind, 
depend  on  it." 

The  next  day  Lexham  took  Elinor  to  Oldcastle's 
to  show  her  properly  over  the  rooms. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  I'm  sure  these  will  suit  you,  Gil- 
bert. The  neighbourhood  is  convenient  and  quiet. 
Just  far  enough  away  from  the  hideous  and  noisy 
Elevated  Railroad.  I  should  take  them." 

"  Very  well,  dear ;  I'm  glad  you  like  them.  I'll 
write  a  note  to  Mr.  Oldcastle  and  ask  when  I  can  have 
them." 

"  But  you  must  have  them  done  up.  Properly 
painted,  papered,  and  furnished.  Suppose  we  go  over 
to  Hert's  and  look  at  some  furniture  and  make  inquiry 
about  the  cost.  Come,  let  us  go." 

Lexham  let  Elinor  have  her  way.  The  rooms  were 
beautifully  decorated  and  the  furniture  well  chosen. 


2i8  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

The  cost  was  heavy,  but  she  had  arranged  the  whole 
scheme  and  he  was  satisfied. 

Elinor  had  taken  a  suite  of  rooms  in  a  large  house 
near  where  Mrs.  Pollack  had  lived.  Lexham  wished 
her  to  have  her  apartments  furnished  by  Hert's,  but 
she  would  not  consent  to  the  proposal.  Her  new  place 
was  in  every  way  far  superior  to  Mrs.  Pollack's.  She 
had  a  large  drawing-room  and  bedroom,  and  at  the 
back  of  the  house  Gower  had  a  much  better  room  than 
the  one  in  which  he  had  composed  his  first  opera. 

By  the  time  they  were  settled  in  their  new  quarters 
the  change  had  cost  Lexham  quite  four  thousand  dol- 
lars. Then  a  period  of  inaction  followed.  Elinor  had 
become  reconciled  to  her  new  lot,  Gower  was  pestered 
by  creditors  and  could  not  work,  and  Lexham  could  not 
fix  on  a  subject  for  his  next  novel.  Short  stories  and 
magazine  articles  he  would  not  write.  Week  after 
week  passed  and  still  he  was  at  a  loss  for  a  subject. 
When  alone  he  suffered  from  fits  of  deep  dejection. 
Something  began  to  weigh  heavily  upon  him.  He 
could  not  understand  the  inertia.  "  The  Fame  of 
Fools"  had  run  its  course.  His  other  plays  were  on 
the  wane.  His  novels  for  some  unaccountable  reason 
no  longer  sold  in  large  quantities.  Blackston  had  seen 
him  several  times  about  a  new  book,  but  failed  to  get 
him  to  work.  But  all  this  he  kept  from  Elinor.  She 
did  not  notice  his  dejection.  His  love  for  her  was, 
if  anything,  deeper  and  stronger  than  before.  Still, 
he  suffered  from  a  mental  depression  which  was  alarm- 
ing because  of  its  lack  of  cause.  He  would  sit  for 
hours  pen  in  hand  at  his  desk  without  writing  a  line. 
He  became  alarmed. 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  219 

The  summer  came  and  brought  Mrs.  Laird  and  her 
aunt  to  New  York.  Gower's  pleasure  was  quite  spoiled 
by  his  desperate  straits.  For  two  days  he  roamed 
about  with  Mrs.  Laird,  but,  owing  to  his  empty  pockets, 
he  could  not  entertain  or  take  her  about  as  he  wished. 
He  had  expected  Mrs.  Sefton  to  resume  the  piano  les- 
sons, but  for  some  unknown  reason  the  dear  old  lady 
did  not  broach  the  subject. 

One  night  late  he  went  to  Lexham,  determined  to  tell 
him  all  his  troubles  and  ask  for  a  loan  large  enough 
to  stop  the  appeals  and  threats  of  his  creditors.  He 
reached  the  door  in  the  side  street  and  rang  twice,  but 
no  one  came  to  let  him  in.  He  looked  at  his  watch. 
It  was  close  on  midnight,  but  he  had  called  many  times 
before  at  a  later  hour.  From  the  street  he  could  see 
that  Lexham's  rooms  were  lighted.  He  rang  again, 
and  waited  on  the  steps  for  a  few  minutes.  A  sigh  of 
relief  escaped  him  as  he  heard  someone  approach  and 
unlatch  the  door.  It  was  Lexham. 

"  Gower !"  The  caller  could  not  help  but  notice  the 
other's  surprise. 

"  Yes.  Hullo,  Lexham.  Should  like  to  see  you  for 
a  few  moments." 

"  Come  in." 

As  they  ascended  the  short  flight  of  stairs  which 
led  to  the  door  of  Lexham's  sitting-room  Gower 
thought  Lexham  spoke  in  a  voice  unnecessarily  loud, 
and  also  spoke  his  name,  on  which  he  put  great  stress, 
too  often.  When  they  entered  the  room  Lexham 
crossed  to  his  bedroom  door,  and  as  he  closed  it  he 
said,  "  Sit  down,  Gower." 

There  was  an  awkward  pause  before  either  spoke. 


220  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

Gower  was  sure  he  had  called  at  an  unpropitious  time, 
and  the  sense  of  this  seemed  to  discount  the  importance 
of  his  visit. 

"  What  can  I  do  for  you  ?"  Lexham  volunteered. 

"  Well,  the  fact  is,  I'm  dreadfully  hard  up  and 
pressed  for  money,"  Gower  replied  in  rather  a  loud 
voice. 

"  Hard  up,  eh  ?  How  much  money  will  help  you 
out  of  your  difficulty?"  Lexham  asked,  now  speak- 
ing in  a  lower  tone. 

"  How  much  ?  Phew !  That's  more  than  I  care 
to  know.  It's  bad  enough  to  see  the  amounts  sepa- 
rately, I've  not  dreamed  of  adding  them  all  together," 
Gower  exclaimed,  with  some  force. 

"  Ssh !     Don't  speak  so  loud,"  Lexham  said. 

"Why?  What's  the  matter?  I  thought  the  Old- 
castles  didn't  use  this  wing." 

"  They  don't,  as  a  rule,  but  someone  may  be  in  the 
rooms  above.  Have  you  no  idea  how  much  money 
you  owe?" 

Gower  was  silent  for  some  moments,  being  in  the 
throes  of  mental  calculations. 

"  Would  two  or  three  hundred  dollars  cover  your 
debts?"  Lexham  suggested. 

"  Two  or  three  hundred  ?  I  wish  they  could,"  he 
almost  shouted. 

"Five  hundred?" 

"  Five  hundred  would  set  me  straight  for  a  while." 

"  Will  to-morrow  do  ?"  Lexham  asked,  with  a  sigK 
of  relief. 

"  Yes ;  I  shall  be  so  much  obliged.  You  are  a  briclc, 
Lexham." 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  221 

"  I'll  send  you  a  cheque  in  the  morning." 

Gower  forgot  Lexham's  warning  about  speaking  in 
a  loud  voice.  He  went  to  the  sideboard  and  helped 
himself  to  a  drink,  took  a  cigar  and  lighted  it,  threw 
himself  into  a  chair,  and,  to  Lexham's  surprise,  made 
himself  comfortable  for  a  chat. 

"  I  say,  don't  you  let  Diva  know  anything  about  this, 
will  you?  She  is  so  funny,"  said  Gower. 

"Is  she?"  Lexham  looked  at  his  watch.  "I'm 
afraid  I  can't  ask  you  to  stay,  Gower.  It  is  late  and 
I  have  several  letters  to  write." 

"Oh,  all  right.  But  you'll  let  me  have  that  to- 
morrow morning?  It  is  good  of  you.  I'll  send  you 
an  I.  O.  U." 

"  Very  well.  Good-night."  He  went  down  to  the 
street  door  with  Gower  to  see  him  out. 

"  I  say,  Lexham,  it  is  good  of  you,  but  I  wouldn't 
have  bothered  you  to-night  if  I  had  guessed  you  were 
engaged.  You  might  have  given  me  a  hint.  Good- 
night." 

With  a  heavy  heart  Lexham  went  back  to  his  room. 
Everything  seemed  to  be  fighting  against  him.  He 
remembered  the  peculiar  smile  on  Gower's  lips  as  he 
left  him.  He  opened  his  bedroom  door,  looked  in  and 
said,  "  He's  gone." 

Elinor's  face  was  stern  and  set.  She  came  out  and 
drew  a  chair  up  to  the  fire,  leaned  her  head  upon  her 
hands  and  gazed  at  the  blazing  coals. 

"  I'm  so  cold,"  she  said ;  "  draw  up  a  chair  and  sit 
close,  Gilbert," 

"  You  know  what  he  wanted  ?  You  heard  him  ?" 
he  inquired. 


222  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

"  Yes,  I  heard  him.  I'm  so  accustomed  to  every 
sound  of  his  voice  that  I  can  now  hear  it  when  he 
whispers  in  another  room.  For  years  I  lay  awake  at 
night  listening  to  his  breathing.  Think  of  all  the  love 
of  which  I've  been  defrauded.  Love  that  should  have 
been  yours.  But  you'll  not  let  him  have  the  money, 
Gilbert.  He  must  not  be  your  vulture.  Much  may 
be  wrong,  but  that  I  am  sure  would  not  be  right." 

"  What  does  it  matter?  Let  him  have  it,"  he  said. 
"  I  am  so  sick  of  money.  We  were  far  happier  in  the 
old  rooms  before  the  money  came."  She  was  stung 
by  the  sadness  in  his  tone. 

"Oh,  don't  say  that,  Gilbert.  I  shall  kill  myself 
if  I  imagined  you  were  less  happy.  What  can  we  do  ? 
We  need  some  new  excitement.  We  have  been  too 
much  alone.  I  have  taken  up  too  much  of  your  time. 
Gilbert,  do  go  out.  Meet  people.  Let  me  get  some 
cheerful  people  together  once  or  twice  a  week.  Yes, 
I  see,  it  is  all  my  fault.  What  can  I  do?  Suppose 
you  are  tiring  of  me  and  you  are  not  really  aware 
of  it." 

"  Elinor !  Tiring  of  you !  If  it  were  not  for  you 
I  should  give  it  all  up  and  go  back  to  the  old  life. 
Something  has  been  crushed  out  of  me,  or  some  taint, 
some  strange  woe  afflicts  me.  I  care  nothing  for  suc- 
cess. Has  it  come  too  late,  or  am  I  harassed  by  a 
mere  chimera?  I  thought  I  knew  myself,  but  this 
strange  phase  I  can't  understand.  I've  always  stinted 
myself  of  real  joy,  but  I  was  never  discontented,  Elinor. 
Something  now  exists  which  troubles  me.  It  is  very 
stupid  of  me,  but  I  can't  help  myself.  I'm  disgusted 
with  the  work  I've  done.  I  want  to  do  something 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  223 

worth  while,  but  I  don't  know  how.  It's  not  for  want 
of  inclination;  then  it  must  be  lack  of  confidence  and 
ability." 

She  was  grieved  and  pained  to  hear  him  admit  so 
much. 

"  I  would  give  anything  I  possess  to  know  what 
troubles  you,  Gilbert.  How  small  a  thing  a  great  love 
seems  when  the  world  pushes  its  cruel  elbow  in  be- 
tween !  What  one  has  suffered,  all  one  has  starved  for, 
is  set  down  as  nothing  the  moment  the  ethics  of  con- 
vention are  opposed.  I  feel  that  you  would  be  a  little 
happier  for  a  few  years  if  I  were  to  marry  you,  dear, 
but  for  so  few.  It  is  wiser  not.  I  don't  care,  Gil- 
bert; let  us  forget  everything  but  the  peace  and  love 
which  must  be  ours  for  a  little  time.  I  shall  know 
when  to  leave  you.  When  I  have  lost  the  charm  of 
pleasing  you  the  wrench  then  will  not  much  matter. 
I  shall  have  loved  and  known  the  fellowship  which  will 
suffice  to  bear  me  cheerfully  down  the  years  of  cruel 
change  and  withering  age.  I  ask  for  all  my  due. 
No  more." 

There  was  no  hysteria,  no  exaggerated  sentiment  in 
her  tone.  Only  a  deep  seriousness.  A  pathetically 
simple  note  which  seemed  to  mingle  with  her  hopes 
of  joy  and  fears  of  loss.  He  was  acutely  stirred,  for 
in  her  yearnings  and  fears  there  was  an  echo  of  all 
he  was  then  suffering.  He  had  been  deprived  of  so 
much  for  which  he  craved  so  long;  then  when  his 
longing  was  realised,  he  found  it  but  a  momentary  joy 
and  in  no  way  a  recompense  adequate  to  the  years  of 
desire.  Would  she  so  find  the  fulfilment  of  all  her 
fond  hopes  ? 


224  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

"  Forgive  me,  Elinor.  I  did  not  intend  to  let  you 
know  how  depressed  I've  been.  I'm  a  fool,  but  I  must 
do  something  better  than  I've  done.  The  very  popu- 
larity of  my  books  and  plays  has  convinced  me  of  their 
shallowness.  If  I  don't  succeed  in  doing  better  work 
in  my  next  novel  I  shall  not  attempt  to  write  another 
line." 


CHAPTER    XVII 

FOR  several  months,  nearly  a  year,  Lexham  worked 
hard  on  his  novel,  which  was  to  prove  whether  he 
should  continue  his  career  in  literature  or  renounce 
it  for  good.  Elinor  had  succeeded  in  interesting  him 
in  people,  and  it  was  owing  mainly  to  her  weekly  gath- 
erings of  men  and  women  who  had  made  names  in 
different  fields  of  art  that  Mrs.  Sefton  gave  her  the 
sobriquet  of  Madame  Bohemia. 

Elinor  had  set  aside  all  her  ideas  of  simple  dress. 
Since  Mrs.  Laird  and  her  aunt  had  taken  rooms  in  a 
private  hotel  with  a  view  of  staying  in  New  York 
for  an  indefinite  period,  she  had  seen  Gertrude  Laird 
often. 

One  night  after  her  guests  had  gone  Elinor  men- 
tioned the  subject  of  dress  to  Lexham.  She  did  not 
refer  to  herself.  In  questioning  him  she  was  quite 
impersonal,  and  drew  from  him  many  remarks  which 
in  no  way  applied  to  her  case.  But  her  heart  was 
wounded  and  her  mind  alive  to  catch  any  suggestion. 
She  learned  that  he  had  admired  Gertrude  Laird's 
gown,  and  that  he  thought  jewels  looked  very  well 
on  her  fair  neck. 

Gowns  and  jewelry  were  purchased  regardless  of 
the  bank  account,  which  had  suffered  severely  from 
their  new  mode  of  life,  but  Elinor  did  not  know  that 
his  royalties  had  fallen  as  rapidly  almost  as  they  Had 
risen.  The  thought  never  really  crossed  her  mind 

is  225 


226  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

that  they  had  become  entirely  dependent  on  the  money 
which  she  had  banked  for  him.  She  imagined  that  he 
still  received  moneys  from  different  sources,  particu- 
larly from  the  sale  of  his  books ;  she  did  not  know  they 
now  sold  in  units  where  they  had  sold  in  tens.  But 
once  her  pride  was  assailed  and  her  appearance  by 
contrast  jeopardised,  she  would  have  spent  their  last 
dollar  on  herself  in  order  to  charm  him.  She  now 
seemed  to  live  on  the  admiration  expressed  in  his 
glance.  Sometimes  she  passed  through  a  purgatory 
of  fear.  Her  glass  became  her  horologe. 

To  her  delight  she  thought  she  found  him  sensible 
of  the  change.  She  redeemed  her  old  jewelry,  but 
it  seemed  lustreless  and  out  of  fashion  when  she  com- 
pared it  to  Gertrude  Laird's.  She  wore  some  of  her 
own  trinkets,  rings,  and  a  necklet  once,  then  she  locked 
them  up,  put  them  aside,  as  things  out  of  date  and  not 
fit  to  wear.  One  day  when  out  with  him  she  stopped 
before  a  jeweller's  window  and  admired  a  necklet  and 
pendant.  She  was  startled  and  amazed  at  her  action 
when  he  asked  her  if  she  would  like  it.  She  threatened 
to  run  away  if  he  went  into  the  shop  to  buy  it.  But 
a  week  later  she  wore  it. 

Lexham's  thousands  had  dwindled  to  hundreds.  On 
himself  he  spent  very  little.  His  rooms  at  Oldcastle's 
did  not  cost  much  for  rent.  He  seemed  to  feel  happier, 
brighter,  as  the  money  grew  less  and  less.  And  she 
with  all  her  efforts  to  please  him  grew  more  and  more 
alarmed.  She  was  conscious  of  the  fast  approaching 
years. 

Lexham  spent  many  bright  hours  with  the  Old- 
castles.  Alice  and  her  grandfather  did  not  wait  for 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  227 

an  invitation  to  visit  him.  Often  when  he  was  alone 
one  or  the  other  would  tap  on  his  door  and  walk  in. 
He  often  looked  for  the  charming  girl  and  kind  old 
man  to  break  in  and  relieve  the  tedium  of  a  long  day. 
Elinor  had  made  it  a  hard  and  fast  rule  not  to  inter- 
rupt him  during  certain  hours  of  the  day  when  she 
supposed  him  to  be  at  work.  The  Oldcastles  had  given 
up  the  larger  part  of  their  house  in  which  they  lived 
when  Lexham  first  went  there.  The  rooms  above 
Lexham's  had  been  fitted  up  for  them,  and  they  found 
them  quite  large  enough  for  their  needs. 

One  morning  Oldcastle  said  to  him,  "  I  was  offered 
a  good  rent  for  the  larger  part  of  the  house,  and  as  I 
feel  my  body  will  soon  require  so  little  space  and  my 
soul  so  much,  I  thought  it  wise  for  Alice's  sake  to 
accept  the  offer.  I  want  to  be  sure  when  I  am  taken 
from  her  that  she  will  have  enough.  Dear  child !  Gil- 
bert, when  I  go  she  will  be  left  without  a  relation. 
But  I  have  no  fears  of  her  future.  None.  She  is 
both  wise  and  pure.  I  have  watched  her  since  she 
first  lay  on  her  mother's  breast,  a  helpless,  fatherless 
baby." 

"  Her  father  died  before  she  was  born  ?"  Lex- 
ham  murmured,  deeply  moved  by  the  old  man's  re- 
marks. 

"  Yes.  Good-morning,  Gilbert.  I  shall  go  out  and 
sit  in  the  square.  What  a  day  it  is !  Spring  speeding 
winter  away  and  welcoming  summer." 

Lexham  thought  Oldcastle  winced  when  he  men- 
tioned Alice's  father.  The  old  man  rose  abruptly  and 
spoke  in  a  voice  shaken  by  an  emotion  perhaps  caused, 
Lexham  thought,  by  his  reference  to  his  own  taking 


228  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

off.  In  a  glass  on  his  desk  were  narcissus  and  jon- 
quils arranged  as  only  one  having  the  throb  of  spring 
in  the  heart  can  arrange  such  flowers.  Alice  had  that 
morning  spent  some  time  in  his  room  while  he  was 
out;  and  in  it  she  had  not  only  left  the  tokens  of 
spring  but  something  of  her  own  sweet  self.  He  was 
not  conscious  of  her  charm.  He  felt  her  influence 
only  in  a  vague  way,  as  one  is  conscious  of  the  morn! 
before  the  sun  has  risen.  Lexham  realised  a  great 
change  in  himself  had  taken  place  since  he  had  been 
at  work  on  the  novel  which  was  to  decide  so  much. 
It  was  his  third  book.  He  had  on  his  desk  two  un- 
finished plays,  but  these  of  late  had  been  neglected. 
Though  he  had  lived  with  the  Oldcastles  for  not  more 
than  twelve  months,  their  friendship  had  ripened  so 
gradually  that  he  did  not  notice  how  intimate  they  had 
become.  Besides,  he  was  too  occupied  to  reflect  on 
that  point.  He  did  not  stop  to  wonder  what  had  been 
the  cause  of  his  mental  change.  He  would  not  have 
known  to  what  cause  it  should  be  attributed. 

Many  peculiar  changes  had  taken  place  before  his 
book  was  finished.  Alice  had  asked  no  more  questions 
about  Elinor.  Oldcastle  never  referred  to  her.  But 

Lexham  was  not  aware  of  all  this. 

******** 

Lexham  Had  been  spending  several  mornings  watch- 
ing the  proceedings  at  the  Tombs  Police  Court.  He 
was  in  want  of  some  detail  for  a  court  scene  in  his 
novel.  One  spring  morning  when  he  was  paying  more 
attention  to  the  spectators  than  the  wretched  creatures 
brought  before  the  judge,  a  detective  whom  he  knew 
came  up  to  him  and  said,  "  Mr.  Lexham,  would  you 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  229 

like  to  have  a  look  at  Julius,  the  coon  what  cut  that 
woman  up  last  week?" 

"  Is  he  to  be  brought  here  ?"  Lexham  asked,  remem- 
bering a  startling  account  he  had  read  of  a  murder 
committed  by  a  negro. 

"Yes;  come  with  me,  sir;  they'll  fetch  him  up 
to  the  little  waiting-room  before  they  take  him  into 
court." 

The  detective  led  the  way  to  a  small  room  at  the 
back  of  the  court  where  several  reporters  and  court 
officials  were  waiting.  The  conversation  was  all  about 
the  man  whom  they  were  eager  to  see.  After  Lexham 
had  been  in  the  room  a  few  minutes  he  had  heard 
enough  of  the  frightful  details  of  the  crime  to  make 
him  sorry  he  had  been  persuaded  to  follow  the  detec- 
tive. Through  the  dirty  window  Lexham  saw  a  crowd 
gather  outside  the  court-house.  A  few  moments 
passed,  when  suddenly  two  stalwart  officers  in  plain 
clothes  marched  in.  Between  them,  handcuffed,  was 
the  murderer  Julius.  Lexham  expected  to  see  a  giant, 
full  of  bravado  and  ready  to  fight,  or  do  anything  in 
his  extremity.  Julius  was  not  anything  like  what  he 
had  pictured  him.  The  negro  was  about  the  medium 
height,  a  wiry,  loose-built  man,  whose  long  arms 
seemed  too  heavy  for  his  narrow,  sloping  shoulders. 
His  eyes  were  full  of  fear.  Abject  misery  covered 
him  as  he  stood  trembling,  fidgeting,  throwing  startled 
glances  from  right  to  left,  searching  every  face  in  the 
small  murky  room  for  a  look  of  pity.  A  portly  man 
of  fifty-five  or  sixty  entered  and  walked  up  to  Julius. 
The  newcomer  was  Lawyer  Dowe.  Jewels  flashed 
from  rings  upon  his  hands,  jewels  flashed  from  pin 


230  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

and  studs  in  his  tie  and  shirt.  He  was  a  famous  crim- 
inal lawyer. 

"  You  know  nothing,  see  ?  Don't  talk.  Refuse  to 
answer  any  questions,"  said  the  lawyer. 

The  murderer's  tongue  had  turned  to  lead;  his  lips 
moved,  but  neither  word  nor  sound  was  heard.  He 
was  hustled  before  the  judge  and  soon  examined.  The 
crowd  crushed  forward,  breathless  to  catch  a  syllable 
from  the  craven's  lips.  Dowe  stood  at  his  side  and 
advised  him  when  to  speak  and  what  to  say.  In  painful 
whispers  he  replied.  A  question  was  asked  and  some- 
one made  a  foolish  comment.  The  spectators  laughed, 
and  Julius  was  hustled  away  to  wait  his  trial. 

Lexham's  heart  and  mind  were  in  a  tumult.  He 
hardly  knew  why.  The  frightful  scene  had  shocked 
him.  The  contrasts  were  too  severe.  He  sank  upon 
a  bench  quite  unnerved,  unstrung.  The  important 
scene  of  the  day  was  over  and  the  stinking  court  was 
emptied  of  half  its  crowd.  The  air  was  unwholesome. 
The  day  was  murky.  He  remembered  hearing  a  voice 
say,  "  What's  your  name?"  and  another  voice  replied, 
"  Richard  Drake." 

Lexham  arose  and  pushed  forward.  There  before 
the  judge  stood  Drake.  A  smile  was  on  his  thin,  wan 
face  and  his  eyes  sparkled  with  a  lustre  strange  and 
fierce.  Lexham  was  stunned.  Before  he  could  real- 
ise what  was  really  taking  place  Drake  was  sentenced 
and  hustled  away. 

"  No,  no !"  Lexham  cried,  his  soul  in  a  tempest 
and  his  mind  distracted. 

"  Silence !"  an  uncouth  voice  shouted.  It  came  like 
a  snarl  from  a  hungry  hound  fearful  of  losing  a  bone. 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  231 

"  What's  the  matter,  Mr.  Lexham  ?"  asked  the  de- 
tective who  had  persuaded  him  to  see  Julius. 

"  That  man,  Richard  Drake,  I  know  him.  What 
has  he  done?" 

"  Oh,  nothing  much.  Drunk  and  disorderly ;  some- 
thing of  that  sort." 

"  Is  there  a  fine  ?  What  shall  I  do  ?  Can  anything 
be  done?" 

"  Sure.  You  don't  want  him  to  be  sent  to  the 
Island?" 

"  No,  no !  Here,  if  there's  the  alternative  of  a  fine 
pay  it,  will  you?"  Lexham  said  in  haste,  handing  the 
detective  some  money. 

"All  right ;  but  you  heard  what  he  said  to  the  judge, 
'  No,  nothing  to  say.  Hurry  up,  please.'  Please, 
mind  you.  A  kind  of  polite  'un,  eh?" 

After  a  few  minutes  the  detective  returned  to  Lex- 
ham  and  asked  him  to  follow.  The  fine  was  paid  and 
Drake  liberated.  In  half  an  hour  the  two  who  had 
met  three  times  only  and  in  such  strange  ways  were 
alone  face  to  face  in  Lexham's  rooms. 

"  Sit  down,  Drake.  These  are  my  rooms.  Make 
yourself  comfortable,"  Lexham  said,  going  to  his  desk, 
where  he  wrote  a  note  to  Alice  asking  her  to  send 
down  some  hot  food. 

"  What  were  you  doing  at  the  Tombs,  eh?"  Drake 
asked. 

"  Having  a  look  round.  After  some  detail  and  char- 
acter," Lexham  replied. 

"  Oh,  yes,  you're  doing  novels  and  plays.  You  must 
do  them  quite  to  the  public's  taste  by  the  look  of  your 
rooms,"  Drake  yawned. 


232  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

"  Are  you  tired  ?     Would  you  like  a  sleep  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  should.  Deuce  of  a  place  to  spend  a  night 
where  I've  been  since  yesterday.  Brandy,  I  suppose. 
The  fellow  next  to  me  would  sing,  and  a  woman  down 
the  corridor  laughed  and  swore  all  night.  I  owe  you 
ten  dollars.  Can't  pay  you." 

"  Don't  speak  of  it,  Drake.  Please  sit  down.  Rest 
for  a  while." 

"  Oh,  I'm  all  right.  What's  the  good  of  wasting 
your  time  ?" 

"No  fear  of  that.  No,  don't  go.  Wait  a  bit. 
iWould  you  like  a  wash?" 

"  I'd  like  nothing  better." 

"  Come  with  me,"  said  Lexham. 

He  took  Drake  to  the  bath-room,  and  at  length  pre- 
vailed on  him  to  accept  some  clean  clothes.  When 
Lexham  left  Drake  in  the  bedroom  and  returned  to  the 
sitting-room  he  found  Alice  there  laying  a  table. 

"  Miss  Oldcastle,  I've  found  a  friend  who  is  not 
well  off,  in  fact,  he  has  been  ill  and  had  much  trouble," 
said  Lexham.  "  Do  you  think  I  could  have  that  little 
room  at  the  end  of  the  hall  fitted  up  as  a  bedroom  for 
my  friend?" 

"  Yes,  of  course.  But  you  know  it  was  a  pantry. 
The  shelves  could  be  taken  down,"  Alice  said. 

"  How  good  of  you !  Is  your  grandfather,  busy  ? 
Could  I  see  him  for  a  few  minutes?" 

"  Yes ;  I  think  he  is  coming  down  to  go  out  for  a 
walk." 

"  I  want  to  explain  some  things  to  him  before  he 
gives  his  consent.  Will  you  ask  him  to  look  in  here 
before  he  goes  out?" 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  233 

"  I'll  tell  him  now.  I'm  having  some  chops  grilled. 
Would  you  like  some  soup?"  she  asked. 

"  Please !     Soup  will  do  him  much  good." 

Lexham  had  planned  it  all  out.  He  would  tell  Old- 
castle  the  little  he  knew  about  Drake,  and  if  the  old 
gentleman  approved  of  his  scheme  he  would  persuade 
Drake  to  live  with  him. 

"  Well,  Gilbert,  what's  the  matter?"  Oldcastle  asked 
as  he  came  in. 

"I  want  to  ask  you  if  you  will  permit  me  to  look 
after  a  friend  who  has  no  money.  Miss  Oldcastle  has 
perhaps  told  you  what  I  said  about  the  pantry  down 
the  passage.  The  man  I  want  the  room  for  has  reached 
an  irresponsible  stage  through  misfortune  and  drink. 
He  is  never  noisy,  I  think.  Care  and  comfort  are  very 
necessary.  I  don't  know  much  about  him,  but  I  do 
want  to  feel  that  he'll  not  go  from  bad  to  worse 
through  any  want  of  action  on  my  part." 

"  Dear  me,  what  a  fuss  about  nothing, — a  box  of 
a  room!  Of  course  you  may  have  it.  Do  you  think 
we  are  Pharisees?" 

"  But  I'm  afraid  he  drinks ;  sometimes  he  has  fits 
of  lunacy." 

"  Want  of  care,  perhaps.  Let  us  see  what  we  can  do 
for  him." 

"  George  Blackston's  man,  Windham,  knows  some- 
thing of  his  history.  I've  met  Drake,  that  is  my 
friend's  name,  only  three  times.  This  morning  I  found 
him  in  a  police  court.  He  was  charged  with  being 
drunk  and  disorderly.  I  paid  his  fine  and  brought  him 
here." 

"  Poor  fellow !     You  did  well,  Gilbert,  and  I " 


234  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

"  Ah,  Mr.  Oldcastle,  more  than  that  has  been  done 
for  me.  I'm  extremely  obliged  to  you.  Drake  can 
sleep  to-night  on  the  big  sofa  in  my  room.  I'll  go 
out  this  afternoon  and  buy  a  few  things  for  his  room, 
so  that  he  can  sleep  there  to-morrow  night." 

"  Don't  do  that  till  you  see  Alice.  She  may  have 
some  furniture  which  will  do.  Well,  I  must  go.  The 
sun  has  been  a  niggard  for  the  past  two  or  three  days. 
Come  up,  if  you  have  an  hour  to  spare  to-night,  and 
have  a  game  of  chess  and  smoke  a  pipe." 

After  Drake  had  had  some  food,  of  which  he  did 
not  eat  much,  Lexham  was  glad  to  find  him  more  cheer- 
ful and  inclined  to  talk. 

"  I  suppose  you  have  no  work  at  present,  have  you, 
Drake?" 

"  No.  Had  none,  to  speak  of,  for  a  deuce  of  a  time. 
You  remember  that  day  you  saw  me  in  the  Park? 
Well,  I  had  been  working  in  an  estate  agent's  office. 
Couldn't  keep  straight,  though.  He  was  a  bit  of  a 
tippler  himself.  Unfortunately,  the  two  of  us  got 
drunk  on  the  same  day  and  some  business  slipped  out 
of  his  hands.  He  lost  a  big  commission  and  I  lost 
my  job.  It's  no  use.  Don't  suppose  it  matters  much. 
I  used  to  suffer  from  a  keen  sense  of  disgust  and  re- 
pentance after  a  debauch,  but  not  now.  I'm  all  wrong, 
Lexham.  No  one  appreciates  temperance  so  much  as 
I  do.  Why,  only  a  year  ago  I  wrote  four  lectures  on 
'  Drunkenness,  its  Cause  and  Effect/  and  I've  since 
heard  half  a  dozen  humbugs  deliver  my  lectures  with 
fine  effect.  Introduced  myself  to  one  lecturer  and 
told  him  I  was  the  author  of  his  oration.  He  spurned 
me,  but  when  I  reminded  him  of  one  or  two  omissions 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  235 

he  had  indiscreetly  made  in  the  lecture,  he  offered  me 
twenty  dollars  to  write  him  one  on  *  Liars,  Political 
and  Commercial.'  But  I  had  no  sympathy  with  the 
subject."  He  was  silent  for  a  little  while.  "  I'm 
taking  up  your  time." 

"  No,  no,"  said  Lexham ;  "  sit  down  or  go  in  there 
and  have  a  sleep.  Turn  into  my  bed  for  an  hour  or 
two." 

"  May  I  ask  you  why  you're  taking  this  interest  in 
me?"  Drake  inquired.  "  Why  did  you  pay  the  fine? 
I  might  as  well  be  honest  with  you,  your  kindness  only 
defers  the  end.  The  desire  for  drink  is  in  my  blood. 
I've  made  a  profound  study  of  my  case.  There  is  no 
hope." 

"  I  think  there  is  hope,  Drake,"  said  Lexham,  with 
emphasis,  "  and  if  you'll  stay  with  me  awhile  and 
give  yourself  a  chance  you'll  find  I'm  right."  A  soft 
expression  came  over  Drake's  face  and  a  smile  some- 
thing like  gratitude  lingered  round  his  mouth.  "  There 
is  a  little  room  down  the  passage  out  there  which  I'll 
have  fixed  up  for  you  if  you'll  consent  to  stay.  Come, 
now,  what  do  you  say?" 

"  What  is  there  to  say  ?  I'll  do  it  if  you  wish,  Lex- 
ham,  but  I'm  sure  you'll  soon  get  as  disgusted  with 
me  as  I  am  with  with  myself.  It's  mighty  good  of 
you." 

"  Well,  show  me  you  mean  what  you  say  by  going 
in  there  and  taking  a  rest." 

"All  right.  I  am  tired,"  said  Drake,  thrusting  his 
hand  into  Lexham's. 

When  he  went  up  to  see  Alice  about  the  furnishing 
of  the  little  room,  he  found  she  had  quite  enough  in 


236  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

the  storeroom  to  make  the  place  comfortable  for  Drake. 
She  had  sent  for  a  carpenter  to  remove  the  shelves  and 
a  paper-hanger  and  painter  to  make  the  room  fresh 
and  bright.  Drake  slept  till  eight  o'clock  in  the  even- 
ing, when  he  arose  and  dressed.  Lexham  sent  a  note 
to  Elinor  telling  her  he  would  not  be  at  home  till  late, 
but  that  he  would  call  on  her  about  eleven. 

When  he  saw  Elinor  he  was  at  a  loss  to  know  how 
he  should  explain  why  he  had  taken  Drake  to  live  with 
him.  That  she  showed  no  displeasure  when  he  did 
tell  her  surprised  him. 

For  six  months  Drake  lived  an  exemplary  life.  The 
Oldcastles  learned  to  like  him.  He  had  won  their 
sympathy.  For  Lexham  he  would  have  done  anything. 
Though  he  felt  incapable  of  working,  he  never  tired 
of  doing  work  for  Lexham,  who  seemed  to  understand 
why  he  had  no  desire  to  get  employment  on  a  paper. 
Blackston  had  offered  to  give  him  some  light  work  in 
his  office,  but  Drake  showed  no  inclination  to  accept 
it  when  Lexham  mentioned  the  matter.  There  were 
no  temptations  when  alone  with  Lexham.  He  was 
afraid  of  being  so  many  hours  a  day  away  from  those 
whom  he  respected. 

One  February  afternoon,  when  Lexham  was  hard  at 
work  on  his  third  book,  Gower  called.  He  had  not 
seen  him  alone  since  he  had  received  the  cheque  for 
the  five  hundred  dollars  he  had  borrowed. 

"  I'm  in  trouble  again,  Lexham,"  said  Gower,  "  and 
this  time  it  is  serious.  I  want  to  go  to  Chicago 
and  see  an  opera  company  about  my  new  work,  but 
I  can't  raise  money  enough  to  take  me  there  and 
back." 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  237 

"  Urn !  That's  a  pity,"  said  Lexham.  "  Can't  you 
get  them  to  pay  your  expenses." 

"  No,  I'm  going  on  '  spec' ;  but  I  have  good  reason 
to  think  they  will  take  the  work.  They  want  an  opera 
for  the  New  York  season.  Can  you  lend  me  a  hun- 
dred?" 

"I  can't." 

"  Can't !"  Gower  exclaimed,  in  a  tone  of  unbelief. 

"No;  I  haven't  got  so  much."  Lexham  did  not 
really  know  how  much  was  left. 

"  Phew !"  There  was  a  sly  expression  of  incredulity 
on  Gower's  face. 

"  I've  not  drawn  a  single  royalty  for  four  months. 
My  plays  are  on  the  shelf  and  my  books  have  had  their 
day,"  Lexham  explained. 

"  But  what  the  deuce  have  you  done  with  it  all  ? 
Why,  you  were  drawing  quite  one  thousand  dollars  a 
week — well,  not  two  years  ago." 

"  So  much  as  that,  was  it?"  Lexham  said,  annoyed 
and  a  little  disgusted. 

"Then  I  can't  go  to  Chicago,  eh?"  Gower  mut- 
tered. 

"  Not  if  you  depend  on  me  to  pay  your  expenses." 

"  But  I  don't  know  what  I  shall  do.  You  see  we 
need  money  pretty  badly.  Diva  hasn't  got  any." 

"  Have  you  asked  her  for  money?" 

"  No ;  what's  the  good  ?  But  I  know  she  has  had 
several  rows  with  the  landlady  about  rent." 

"  Rent!     Did  you  say  rent?" 

r'Yes.  There  was  an  awful  row  this  morning. 
This  woman  is  a  regular  grind.  She  raises  the  very 
devil;  not  a  bit  like  Mrs.  Pollack."  .  • 


238  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

Lexham  was  too  shocked  to  ask  any  more  questions. 
He  had  no  idea  all  the  money  was  gone.  Elinor  had 
told  him  when  he  insisted  on  letting  Gower  have  the 
five  hundred  dollars  that  they  had  spent  far  too  much 
and  that  the  bank  account  was  low.  He  could  not 
understand  it.  Elinor  had  sent  him  the  same  amount 
each  week.  She  drew  the  cheques.  The  money  was 
banked  in  her  name.  It  was  a  mystery  he  could  not 
solve,  for  he  had  never  taken  any  interest  in  the  ac- 
count. 

"  Well,  Gower,  I  can't  do  anything  for  you,"  Lex- 
ham  said. 

"What  shall  I  do?"  Gower  whined. 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  It's  a  pity  to  lose  so  good  a  chance." 

After  Gower  left  the  room  Lexham  took  up  one 
of  his  unfinished  plays  and  read  over  what  was  written. 
He  had  tired  of  the  subject,  which  he  thought  was  thin. 
But  something  had  to  be  done  to  raise  money.  He  was 
so  exasperated  at  his  want  of  foresight  and  lethargy 
that  he  had  great  difficulty  in  concentrating  his  mind 
on  the  play,  which  he  felt  was  the  only  source  of  in- 
come for  the  near  future.  His  book  was  finished  but 
not  ready  for  publication.  That  night  he  worked  hard 
on  the  play.  It  was  daylight  before  he  retired.  He 
shut  himself  up  for  a  week  and,  in  a  way,  succeeded  in 
making  something  of  his  material.  He  dared  not  let 
himself  think  how  dissatisfied  he  was  with  the  result. 
He  hastened  to  the  manager  who  had  produced  his 
other  plays.  It  was  accepted,  but  could  not  be  per- 
formed for  several  months ;  not  till  the  following  sea- 
son. He  felt  ashamed  when  he  received  a  cheque  for 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  239 

two  thousand  dollars  in  advance  of  royalties.  He 
had  said  nothing  to  Elinor  about  their  financial  state. 
He  had  decided  to  wait  till  he  knew  whether  his  play 
was  accepted.  Three  weeks  had  passed  since  he  learned 
from  Gower  that  Elinor  had  been  pressed  by  her  land- 
lady for  rent,  but  each  week  he  had  received  the  usual 
amount  for  his  expenses.  She  called  on  him  early  that 
morning  he  received  the  cheque  for  advance  royalties. 

"  Elinor,"  he  said,  "  two  or  three  weeks  ago  Cyril 
told  me  you  were  in  difficulties  about  rent." 

"  Cyril  told  you !"  she  exclaimed,  with  anger.  "  Did 
he  ask  you  to  lend  him  more  money?" 

"  Yes:  but. I  had  none  to  give  or  lend.  Don't  be 
vexed,  dear.  I  thought  you  would  worry,  so  I  didn't 
speak  about  it  then.  Here  is  a  cheque  for  two  thou- 
sand." 

She  burst  into  tears.  He  strove  to  soothe  her,  but 
she  would  not  be  consoled.  Her  grief  alarmed  him. 
He  had  never  seen  such  a  paroxysm.  He  took  her 
in  his  arms  and  swayed  her  to  and  fro  as  he  would 
have  hushed  a  child's  grief.  He  was  never  so  sure  of 
his  love  for  her. 

"  Gilbert,  Gilbert,  I  can't  tell  you  all  I've  suffered 
for  the  past  three  months !"  she  sobbed.  "  You  know 
I  told  you  we  should  be  careful  of  the  little  we  had  left 
when  you  made  me  give  Cyril  all  that  money.  I  was 
afraid  to  tell  you  how  much  was  left  after  I  cashed 
the  cheque  for  him.  I  thought  you  would  soon  have 
more  royalties.  But  nothing  came  in.  I've  tried  many 
times  to  tell  you,  but  I  couldn't  because  you  seemed 
to  be  happier  than  you  were.  Besides,  you  were  at 
work,  and  I  thought  it  might  worry  you.  There  is  still 


240  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

thirty  or  forty  dollars  left.     I've  drawn  none  for  my- 
self since  Cyril  had  the  five  hundred." 

"  What !  you  have  drawn  money  each  week  for  me 
and  none  for  yourself  ?  You  have  let  me  go  on  living 
without  an  inkling  of  your  troubles,  Elinor?" 

"  Gilbert,  I've  been  very  selfish.  Unkind  and  not 
what  I've  wanted  to  be,  a  help  to  you  and  a  wise  friend. 
When  I  think  of  all  the  money  of  yours  I  have  foolishly 
spent  I  feel  as  if  my  heart  would  break.  Forgive  me !" 
Another  painful  fit  of  sobbing  shook  her. 

"  My  sweet  Elinor.  Don't,  don't !  It  was  all  "for 
you.  It  was  yours.  Yours  to  do  with  as  you  pleased. 
Come,  dear,  I  have  been  a  sluggard  and  a  fool.  But 
see,  I  shall  mend  my  ways." 

"  I  came  this  morning  to  tell  you  all  about  it,"  she 
said.  "  I  owe  that  woman,  Mrs.  Bettiny,  for  four 
months.  She  told  me  last  night  that  she  would  have 
me  turned  out." 

"  No,  no !  Come,  let  us  deposit  the  cheque  and  pay 
her.  Four  months.  How  much  does  that  amount 
to?" 

"  Five  hundred  dollars  in  all,  Gilbert.  I  had  to 
pawn  nearly  all  of  my  jewelry.  The  dress-maker 
threatened  to  prosecute  me.  I  owed  her  a  pretty  big 
bill." 

"  But  didn't  you  promise  me  you  would  never  go 
into  a  pawnshop  again?" 

"  Yes ;  but  what  was  I  to  do  ?  Gilbert,  I  shall  give 
up  the  rooms  and  live  on  a  less  expensive  scale.  It 
has  been  frightful.  Oh,  how  wicked  I've  been! 
Thoughtless  and  cruel.  But,  dear,  I  was  so  afraid  of 
losing  you.  Afraid  to  let  you  know." 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  241 

"  Now,  Elinor,  you  must  let  me  know  exactly  how 
much  you  owe.  It  must  be  paid,  dear.  Five  hundred 
to  your  landlady.  What  else?"  His  tone  was  soft 
and  kind. 

"  Nothing  else,"  she  answered. 

"  The  pawnbroker.  How  much  do  you  require  to 
redeem  all  he  has  of  yours?"  he  asked. 

"  Quite  five  hundred  more." 

"  One  thousand.  Oh,  we  have  ample  left.  What 
about  Cyril  ?  He  has  a  lot  of  debts  ?" 

"  Cyril !  No,  not  a  single  dollar.  I  shan't  listen, 
Gilbert.  It  is  quite  bad  enough  as  it  is.  If  you  offer 
to  give  him  any  more  money  I  will  never  take  another 
cent  of  yours.  He  doesn't  care.  Every  penny  he 
gets  is  spent  on  Gertrude  Laird.  Do  you  imagine  he 
paid  one-half  of  the  five  hundred  to  his  creditors? 
Oh,  no;  Gertrude  Laird,  who  has  never  wanted  for  a 
sou  in  her  life,  she  could,  no  doubt,  tell  us  how  he  spent 
most  of  it.  But  I  think  she  is  beginning  to  see  what  a 
fool  she  has  been;  that  she  has  given  herself  to  a 
selfish  fellow.  It  drives  me  almost  mad  when  she  looks 
at  me  with  eyes  of  pity.  She  will  soon  know  what  I've 
had  to  suffer.  I  know  if  he  thought  there  was  no 
chance  of  marrying  her  he  wouldn't  give  her  a  second 
thought.  He  is  already  tired  of  waiting  for  her.  Poor 
woman,  she  has  jeopardised  her  case,  and,  Gilbert,  I'm 
sure,  if  the  truth  were  known,  she  is  afraid  to  have  her 
case  brought  into  court.  There  is  no  good  reason 
why  it  has  been  postponed  so  many  times.  Mrs.  Sef- 
ton  told  me  that  Gertrude  had  lost  nearly  all  interest 
in  it.  I  don't  know  what  will  become  of  him." 

There  was  a  deep  note  of  futility  in  her  grief.  He 

16 


242  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

felt  there  was  a  sadness  in  her  life  which  was  beyond 
his  divination.  Gower  had  sapped  much  of  the  natural 
joy  out  of  her  best  years.  She  had  given  up  every- 
thing for  him.  When  her  husband  died  she  was  then 
young,  and,  though  she  had  lost  her  voice,  there  were 
many  channels  of  success  open  to  her.  Her  whole 
happiness  was  centred  in  Gower's  future,  in  his  career 
in  music.  The  one  life  had  spoiled  the  other.  In  her 
blind  devotion  to  him  she  had  shielded  him  from  the 
very  vicissitudes  which  his  temperament  should  have 
endured.  He  had  lived  his  early  years,  since  she 
adopted  him,  in  luxury.  As  a  youth  his  character  was 
carefully  cultivated  but  never  seasoned,  and  when  he 
first  felt  the  pinch  of  penury  he  had  not  the  strength 
of  purpose  to  help  himself.  She  had  taught  him  to 
look  to  her  for  everything. 

Lexham  would  hear  of  no  change  in  the  banking  of 
the  money.  The  cheque  for  two  thousand  was  de- 
posited in  Elinor's  name.  The  summer  passed  with- 
out an  event  of  importance.  She  was  very  careful  and 
spent  only  what  was  really  necessary.  Mrs.  Laird  and 
Gower  saw  little  of  each  other,  and  he  was  obliged  to 
teach,  much  to  his  disgust,  for  Elinor  refused  to  let 
him  have  anything  but  board  and  lodging.  They  quar- 
relled almost  daily.  He  was  fast  becoming  a  thor- 
oughly discontented,  disappointed,  embittered  man. 

Drake  was  the  only  cause  of  any  anxiety.  He  had 
twice  gone  off  for  days  together.  Lexham  spent  a 
whole  week  in  searching  high  and  low  for  him  the  first 
time  he  disappeared.  He  found  him  on  the  Island, 
where  short-sentenced  petty  offenders  were  imprisoned. 
The  second  time  he  returned,  after  an  absence  of  ten 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  243 

days,  as  if  he  had  been  away  only  for  a  few  hours. 
The  Oldcastles  were  just  as  much  concerned  about  him 
as  Lexham  was.  Alice  called  him  Dick  Drake,  and 
Drake  loved  and  feared  her.  After  one  of  his  ab- 
sences he  avoided  her  for  several  days,  not  daring  to 
face  her.  If  he  heard  her  coming  he  would  hide  under 
his  bed  or  get  into  a  large  clothes-press  in  Lexham's 
bedroom.  In  it  she  found  him  one  day  fast  asleep. 
She  touched  him  on  the  shoulder,  and  with  mock  se- 
verity of  tone  cried,  "  Dick  Drake,  I've  caught  you  at 
last !"  He  awakened  with  a  start,  gave  her  a  terrified 
look,  and  yelled,  "  No,  no ;  he  was  not  your  father !" 
and  shrank  back  in  the  press  as  if  he  were  frightened. 
Alice  was  dreadfully  shocked.  Tears  sprang  to  her 
eyes.  The  housemaid  was  in  the  other  room.  She 
heard  the  cry  and  ran  into  the  bedroom.  Lexham  was 
out  at  the  time. 

Oldcastle  had  recognised  Drake  as  trie  man  who  was 
once  surrounded  by  a  crowd  when  Alice  and  he  came 
upon  him  that  evening  when  he  was  striving  in  his 
madness  to  find  the  lost  name  of  the  man  who  shot  him- 
self at  Elinor's  bedroom  door.  But  Oldcastle  had 
said  nothing  to  either  Drake  or  Lexham  about  the 
incident. 


CHAPTER   XVIII 

LEXHAM'S  third  novel  was  published  early  in  the 
summer.  It  failed  to  arouse  the  interest  people  had 
taken  in  his  other  books.  He  was  quite  disheartened, 
for  he  had  felt  more  confidence  in  its  subject  and  a 
facility  in  writing  it  which  he  had  not  experienced 
in  the  others.  He  was  obliged  to  write  some  articles 
for  weekly  papers  and  magazines.  He  fell  back  into 
the  old  state  of  discouragement  and  lethargy.  The 
play  was  produced  in  September,  but  after  four  weeks 
of  very  poor  business  it  was  withdrawn.  Elinor  was 
with  him  every  day,  but  she  began  to  feel  how  utterly 
helpless  she  was,  for  all  her  efforts  to  encourage  and 
stimulate  him  failed.  Lexham  began  to  wonder  if 
failure  came  to  some  through  environment.  Was  it  a 
kind  of  epidemic  which  once  begun  no  preventive  or 
treatment  could  stop?  He  imagined  many  reasons  as 
causes  of  his  state,  but  he  would  instantly  reject  any 
thought  of  Elinor  which  was  detrimental  to  her.  Black- 
ston  had  still  great  faith  in  him,  and  Oldcastle  had 
said  Lexham's  third  book  was  his  best.  But  all  their 
expressions  of  approval  and  Elinor's  love  and  confi- 
dence could  not  spur  him  on  to  a  fresh  effort.  He 
cared  nothing  about  the  failure  of  his  play,  but  that 
his  book  aroused  little  or  no  interest  was  an  omen, 
he  thought,  of  the  limit  of  his  capability  and  power. 

There  was  one  who  witnessed  his  dejection  and  often 
heard  a  note  of  sorrow  in  his  voice.  The  quick,  young 
244 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  245 

senses,  with  all  the  pulsation  and  alertness  of  spring, 
detected  every  note  of  change  in  his  expression.  Alice 
began  to  haunt  his  room,  to  stay  for  an  hour  and  hear 
him  speak, — joy  enough  for  Alice.  Her  tender  heart 
went  out  to  him,  but  he  knew  it  not.  His  eyes  were 
too  weak  for  him  to  gaze  long  in  that  strong  sunlight. 
He  did  not  see  the  glorious  love-light  dawn  in  her 
sweet  eyes.  She  had  listened  in  silence  to  her  grand- 
father and  Blackston's  conversations  about  Lexham, 
and  her  great  soul  of  love  and  pity  had  been  stirred  by 
what  she  heard  them  say  of  his  disheartenment.  When 
she  knew  he  was  out  she  would  often  sit  at  a  window 
up  high  which  overlooked  the  square,  sit  and  watch 
for  his  tall,  lithe  figure  to  appear.  And  when  she 
would  catch  the  first  glimpse  of  it,  the  timid  girl,  timid 
because  of  the  new  dear  sensation  in  her  breast,  would 
rise  and  shrink  behind  the  curtain.  The  things  in  his 
rooms  were  sacred  to  her.  The  pens  were  as  precious 
as  pure  gold.  One  day  she  brought  fresh  flowers  for 
the  glasses  on  his  desk,  and  when  she  had  arranged 
them  she  kissed  each  bloom,  and  then  contrived  to 
wait  about  till  he  came  in  to  see  if  he  would  touch  them. 
And  when  he  came,  tired  and  sad  at  heart,  the  fra- 
grance of  the  flowers  attracted  him,  and  she  sat  watch- 
ing with  yearning  eyes  till  he  went  to  his  desk  and 
raised  a  glass  of  blooms  to  his  face.  A  thrill  of  happiness 
ran  through  her  heart  and  she  was  satisfied.  But  only 
by  such  simple  actions,  all  unknown  to  him,  could  she 
find  some  delight  for  that  craving  which  she  hardly 
could  divine.  He  saw  her  tender,  kind,  and  solicitous. 
He  had  from  the  first  given  her  the  attention  one  of 
generous  impulse  gives  to  another  whose  lot  seems 


246  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

sad.  The  motherless  and  fatherless  had  always  his 
compassion.  Of  late  he  had  grown  to  look  upon  her 
as  a  little  sister.  She  seemed  to  him  far  younger  than 
she  was,  and  unconsciously  he  had  ceased  to  call  her 
Miss  Oldcastle.  Alice  came  readily  to  his  lips,  and 
that  was  a  change  that  brought  great  gladness  to  her, 
for  Alice  fell  upon  her  ears  like  evening  dew  on  parched 
flowers  when  she  heard  him  speak  her  name. 

One  afternoon,  late  in  the  autumn,  Elinor  took  Mrs. 
Sefton  and  Gertrude,  who  were  soon  to  leave  New 
York,  to  Lexham's  rooms  for  a  chat  and  a  cup  of  tea. 
Elinor  had  in  a  small  bag  all  her  jewelry.  The  money 
was  all  gone,  but  he  had  been  so  despondent  that  she 
had  not  the  courage  of  heart  to  tell  him.  She  had 
promised  never  again  to  pawn  anything,  but  now  mat- 
ters had  become  so  urgent  that  she  felt  bound  to  let 
him  know  their  state.  He  was  at  that  time  so  de- 
pressed by  other  affairs  that  he  had  not  noticed  that 
Elinor  had  forgotten  to  send  the  usual  cheque  for  his 
expenses.  He  had  been  very  depressed  for  several 
day,  and  poor  Elinor  was  quite  at  her  wit's  end  to 
know  how  to  brighten  an  hour  for  him.  She  knew 
he  liked  the  dear  old  lady  and  that  Gertrude  interested 
him.  He  did  not  often  see  them;  only  at  long  inter- 
vals they  met,  and  usually  at  Elinor's.  But  Mrs. 
Laird's  candour  pleased  him.  She  felt  that  he  knew  or 
guessed  all  about  her  affair  with  Gower,  but  the  sense 
of  it  did  not  embarrass  her.  She  met  him  on  an  equal 
footing,  and  each  believed  they  knew  the  other's  secret. 
They  might  have  known  each  other's  faults  and  virtues 
since  childhood,  they  seemed  so  well  to  understand  what 
should  be  said  and  done.  On  this  occasion  she  had 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  247 

been  in  his  room  barely  fifteen  minutes  when  she  went 
to  the  piano  and  played  some  Schumann  pieces.  The 
effect  was  instantaneous  and  extraordinary.  He  had 
been  gloomy  and  could  not  hide  his  mood  when  he 
greeted  them.  But  the  music  seemed  to  purge  away 
every  shadow  from  his  mind  and  leave  him  reposeful 
and  content.  She  saw  the  wonderful  change,  and 
though  some  note  of  gladness  in  her  heart  rang  out, 
she  could  not  smother  the  sigh  a  flash  of  memory 
started.  From  Schumann  to  Schubert,  from  Schubert 
to  Liszt,  melodies  beautiful  and  exquisite  for  their 
mood,  which  music  infallibly  makes  single  and  one, 
sweeping  all  moods  into  one  smooth  strain,  till  at  last 
she  played  that  sweet  nocturne  of  Liszt's  which  Lexham 
heard  Gower  play  that  New  Year's  night  when  he  took 
him  home  to  Elinor.  A  pleasing  melancholy  fell  like 
summer  twilight  over  Lexham,  but  Elinor  started  with 
a  pain  in  her  heart.  It  sounded  like  a  dirge  to  her; 
funereal  tones  foreboding  the  end  of  love.  The  pre- 
lude to  the  last  act  of  love's  tragedy. 

The  nocturne  ended,  Gertrude  sat  in  deep  thought 
at  the  piano  with  her  fingers  still  resting  on  the  keys. 
Lexham  lay  back  in  a  chair,  loath  to  move.  The  spell 
was  sweet  to  him.  He  feared  to  break  it  by  a  word, 
a  movement. 

"Any  mood  can  be  expressed  in  music,  don't  you 
think  so?"  Gertrude  said,  with  a  sigh,  almost  forgetful 
of  her  aunt's  and  Elinor's  presence. 

"  Yes.  It  fails  only  when  words,  even  of  the  finest 
lyrists,  hamper  it  and  restrict  its  limitations.  I  some- 
times think  Wagner  must  have  suffered  agonies  in  find- 
ing language  for  *  Tristan'  and  many  scenes  of  '  The 


248  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

Niebelungen.'  The  third  act  of  '  Siegfried/  for  in- 
stance, after  Brunhilda  awakes,  what  words  can  express 
all  the  orchestra  so  lucidly  explains!  There  it  seems 
to  me  to  suffer  from  the  inadequacies  of  language. 
Each  instrument  of  the  orchestra  speaks  a  language  of 
its  own.  Think  of  the  power  great  masters  have  there, 
and " 

"  I  think  you  should  have  been  a  composer  or " 

Mrs.  Sefton  interposed,  then  realised  she  had  suggested 
something  which  had  been  better  left  unsaid.  "  Oh, 
of  course,  I  mean  that  if  you  were  a  composer  what 
an  excellent  libretto  you  would  write." 

"  You  got  out  of  that  very  well,  auntie,"  Gertrude 
said,  laughing  at  Mrs.  Sefton's  discomfiture. 

Lexham  rang  for  tea,  and  Alice  soon  came  with  a 
large  tray.  She  had  not  seen  Elinor  for  many  months. 
Mrs.  Sefton  and  Gertrude  she  had  not  seen  before. 
Lexham  introduced  them,  and  he  thought  he  noticed 
something  strained  in  Alice's  manner  when  Elinor 
greeted  her.  Alice  seemed  to  be  embarrassed;  she 
spoke  only  a  few  words  and  busied  herself  unneces- 
sarily with  the  tray.  She  had  been  surprised,  for  she 
understood  Lexham  to  say  that  only  Mrs.  Laird  and  her 
aunt  were  coming  to  tea.  She  did  not  dream  of  meet- 
ing Elinor,  whom  for  months  she  had  striven  to  avoid. 
But  her  cause  for  fear  was  merely  instinctive.  She 
knew  no  real  reason  why  she  should  dislike  Elinor. 
That  she  came  often  to  see  Lexham  and  frequently 
stayed  for  hours  seemed  strange,  but  that  was  all. 
Alice  had  spent  many  heart-breaking  hours  chiding 
herself  because  of  the  ill-defined  aversion  of  which  she 
could  not  rid  herself.  But  Elinor's  charm  was  ir- 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  249 

resistible,  and  Alice  was  again  soon  under  her  sway. 
In  half  an  hour  she  had  forgotten  that  there  was  ever 
a  time  when  she  thought  of  running  away  from  the 
sound  of  her  voice. 

After  Lexham's  guests  left  Blackston  looked  in  to 
see  him.  He  was  glad  to  find  his  literary  friend  more 
cheerful  than  when  he  last  saw  him.  Since  the  failure 
of  his  third  book  Lexham  had  been  quite  a  hermit 

"  What  has  happened  ?"  the  publisher  asked.  "  Have 
you  found  a  subject?" 

"  No.  I  think  some  music  has  been  the  cause  of 
lightening  my  misery.  I'm  not  at  all  inclined  to  write, 
Blackston,  so  don't  try  to  persuade  me  that  I'm  a  suc- 
cess." 

"  Look  here,  Gilbert,  I  can  speak  in  plain  terms  to 
you?" 

"  Certainly." 

"  Well,  I've  come  to  the  conclusion  that  your  wor- 
ries do  not  come  from  what  you  persist  in  calling  in- 
competence. You  would  be  as  right-  as  anyone  if 
your  mind  was  not  shackled  by  a  troublesome  woman." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  Lexham  felt  the  old  devil 
in  him  rise  in  an  instant.  He  would  have  struck 
Blackston  had  they  been  a  jot  less  friendly. 

"  Now,  I'm  sure  of  what  I  mean.  But  if  you  say, 
after  I've  finished  telling  you  what  I  know,  that  it  is 
all  wrong,  then  I'll  apologise,  though  my  most  humble 
apology  will  not  equal  my  regret." 

The  men  were  silent  for  a  moment.  They  eyed  each 
other  as  if  they  were  ready  for  blows,  not  words.  Lex- 
ham  was  an  American  in  principle  and  habit,  and 
though  he  was  ready  to  make  any  denial,  he  knew  that 


250  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

his  friend  was  thinking  only  of  his  happiness,  and  the 
knowledge  almost  forced  him  to  listen  and  control  his 
anger. 

"  Well,  you  know  it  was  Mrs.  Kembleton  who  came 
.with  a  letter  of  introduction  from  Oldcastle  the  day 
she  left  the  manuscript  of  your  first  book  with  me. 
I  had  four  interviews  with  her  before  I  met  you.  To 
say  that  I  was  curious  to  know  why  she  was  so  inter- 
ested in  you  is  merely  mentioning  the  matter.  I  was, 
to  tell  you  the  truth,  damned  inquisitive.  You  were 
only  a  new  man  with  a  clever  book  and  I  a  publisher. 
There  was  no  sentiment  or  friendship  then  between  us. 
Well,  I  took  the  trouble  to  find  out  something  about 
you  and  Mrs.  Kembleton." 

Lexham  sneered,  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  sank 
into  a  chair. 

"  Oh,  yes,  it  was  rather  a  mean  thing  to  do,"  Black- 
ston  put  in,  "  but  I  kept  my  information  to  myself. 
But  if  it  had  not  been  for  prying  then  into  your  affairs 
we  might  never  have  been  the  good  friends  we  have 
been.  I  know  no  one  I  like  so  much  as  I  like  you, 
but  I  do  want  to  show  my  friendship  is  no  ordinary 
matter.  I  thought  your  affair  with  her  was  to  be  only 
a  temporary  one.  I  hate  beating  about  the  bush,  so 
forgive  my  plainness.  If  I've  been  asked  by  one  per- 
son during  the  past  twelve  months  about  you  and  Mrs. 
Kembleton  I've  been  asked  by  fifty.  Unfortunately, 
I've  known  enough  to  have  all  my  answers  stamped 
as  lies.  But  that  I  didn't  much  mind  till  Old- 
castle " 

Lexham  sprang  out  of  the  chair.  No  menace,  no 
threat,  was  in  his  attitude  or  expressed  in  his  face. 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  251 

He  stood  conscious  of  his  fault  and  anxious  to  learn 
what  Blackston  was  about  to  say. 

"  Oklcastle,"  Lexham  whispered,  hoarsely,  "  does 
he  know?  does  he  know?" 

"  He  suspects.  But  I'm  sure  he  wouldn't  let  himself 
believe  it  even  if  I  were  to  swear  to  it." 

Lexham  could  not  speak.  He  had  to  walk  away  to 
the  window  to  hide  his  emotion.  He  felt  humiliated, 
wounded,  terribly  distressed. 

"  Oldcastle  thinks  the  world  of  you ;  aye,  more  than 
that,"  Blackston  said,  in  a  softer  tone,  touched  by  his 
friend's  action.  "  You  know,  Gilbert,  we  must  think 
a  little  of  our  real  friends;  the  others  don't  much 
matter,  and  the  world  can  go  hang  itself.  Its  the  prigs 
and  hypocrites  that  make  most  of  the  trouble  for  us 
in  this  narrow  world,  and  I  would  be  the  first  to  con- 
temn the  interference  of  a  prater,  but,  here,  in  this 
matter,  the  trouble  worries  an  old  man  in  whose  house 
you  live,  and  whose  granddaughter  cannot  mention 
your  name  without  it  trembling  on  her  lips." 

"  Blackston !"  Lexham  cried,  without  turning  from 
the  window. 

"  It's  true,"  the  publisher  affirmed. 

Lexham  had  wholly  mistaken  Blackston's  meaning. 
The  latter  had  for  many  months  noticed  how  Alice 
grew  to  love  Lexham,  and  Lexham  in  his  despair 
thought  only  of  Elinor,  and  that  perhaps  even  Alice 
suspected. 

"  I  shall  leave  here  to-morrow, — to-night !"  Lexham 
exclaimed. 

"  That  would  do  no  good.  Such  a  proceeding  would 
be  a  terrible  blow  to  the  Oldcastles.  Why,  man,  they 


252  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

couldn't  love  a  son  or  a  brother  more  dearly  than  they 
love  you.  I've  known  Adam  Oldcastle  for  nearly 
thirty  years,  I  know  the  history  of  his  life,  and  you 
have  been  the  first  man  to  brighten  an  hour  of  it  since 
Alice's  birth." 

"This  is  terrible,  Blackston.  I  don't  know  what 
to  do, — I  can't  explain  to  you.  It  can't  be  explained. 
I've  tried  to  do  my  utmost  to  set  things  straight,  but 
I've  failed.  I'm  afraid  it's  no  use." 

"  Wait.  I've  told  you  this  for  several  reasons.  The 
first  I've  explained,  and  that  has  awakened  you  to  a 
fact  of  which  you  were  evidently  not  aware.  One 
day  last  spring  I  met  Mr.  Gower,  and  before  we  had 
been  in  conversation  ten  minutes  he  began  to  pump  me 
about  the  amount  you  earned  in  royalties.  I  put  two 
and  two  together,  and  concluded  that  he  had  asked  you 
for  a  loan  which  you  could  not  grant.  Since  that 
time  you  have  received  not  two  hundred  dollars  from 
us.  Now,  I  know  your  generous  nature,  and  I'm  sure 
if  you  had  had  the  money  Gower  asked  for  you  would 
have  let  him  have  it.  Gilbert,  do  you  need  any 
money?" 

"  No,  I  don't  think  so.  I  got  two  thousand  dollars 
advance  on  my  last  play." 

"And  you  will  not  accept  advance  royalties  from 
me?" 

"  Oh,  I've  had  more  faith  in  my  plays." 

"  Well,  I  have  great  faith  in  your  books.  I've  told 
you  before  you  must  not  despair  because  a  book  nowa- 
days sells  well  for  six  or  eight  months  then  falls  almost 
out  of  sight.  This  last  book  of  yours  is  by  far  your  best, 
but  that  I  have  not  so  far  sold  so  many  copies  of  it  in 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  253 

four  months  as  I  sold  of  your  other  books  in  four  weeks 
means  nothing  much.  It  may  not  sell  for  a  year,  but 
I'd  like  to  wager  it  will  some  day  outsell  the  others. 
Now  come,  be  practical,  will  you  accept  two  thousand 
dollars  from  me?" 

"  No,  certainly  not.  It  would  be  nothing  less  than 
obtaining  money  under  false  pretences." 

"  Nonsense !  Others  ask  for  it,  and  many  have  not 
half  your  right  to  ask.  You  are  undoubtedly  the  very 
worst  business  man  I've  ever  met.  Accept  it  as  a 
loan?" 

"  No." 

"  Pay  it  back  to  me  when  you  can, — any  time." 

"  I  don't  need  any  money,  Blackston." 

Lexham  sat  in  the  embrasure  of  the  window.  His 
friend  walked  up  and  down  the  room,  baffled  but  not 
defeated.  He  meant  to  have  it  out  with  him. 

"You  know  Windham,  our  head  man?"  Blackston 
asked,  stopping  before  Lexham,  who  still  sat  in  the 
window. 

"  Yes.  Drake  often  speaks  of  him,"  Lexham  re- 
marked. 

"  Do  you  know  where  Windham  has  lived  for  the 
past  six  months?" 

"  My  dear  Blackston,  what  has  that  got  to  do  with 
it?  I  don't  care  where  he  lives." 

"  You  will  do.  His  rooms  are  on  the  floor  above 
Mrs.  Kembleton  and  Gower's."  For  a  moment  Lex- 
ham  did  not  realise  all  that  this  might  mean.  It  sud- 
denly flashed  upon  him  that  Windham  saw  and  heard 
much  which  he  would  report  to  Blackston. 

"  You  see,  Gilbert,  you  have  not  quite  realised  the 


254  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

peculiar  position  in  which  you  are  placed.  Windham 
told  me  all  about  the  rows  Mrs.  Kembleton  had  with 
Mrs.  Bettiny,  her  landlady,  in  the  spring.  I  need  not 
tell  you  how  he  learned  that  you  found  the  money  to 
pay  off  her  debts,  but  that,  I'm  sorry  to  say,  is  known 
by  many.  Well,  Windham  has  heard  several  worse 
rows  of  late,  and  some  rather  unhappy  ones  between 
Mrs.  Kembleton  and  Gower.  They  seem  to  forget 
their  windows  are  open,  and  that  other  windows  are 
open  too.  I'd  rather  be  laughed  at  myself  than  hear 
gossips  laugh  at  you,  Gilbert." 

There  was  a  long  silence.  Lexham  was  utterly 
crushed.  Blackston  knew  he  was  enduring  great  men- 
tal suffering.  He  wa.s  cruelly  wounded  and  bitterly 
distressed.  After  a  while  he  arose  and  went  to  Black- 
ston, laid  his  hands  upon  his  shoulders.  Lexham's 
head  dropped,  he  could  not  speak.  He  appreciated  all 
he  knew  his  friend  meant. 

"  Now  come,  Gilbert,  what's  to  be  done?  I'll  help 
you  to  do  anything  reasonable.  I  can't  stand  by  and 
watch  you  sink.  All  this  I've  wanted  to  tell  you  for 
months, — well,  ever  since  Windham  first  spoke  to  me 
about  it.  He  likes  you,  and  I'm  sure  had  no  other 
motive  in  telling  me  than  that  which  has  at  last 
prompted  me  to  tell  you.  You  know  I  don't  care  a 
nickel  what  the  gossips  say  so  long  as  their  chatter 
does  no  more  harm  than  to  show  up  their  own  fail- 
ings. But  the  Oldcastles — yourself — your  future, 
surely  to  God  you're  not  going  to  let  this  woman  crush 
the  life  out  of  you  and  come  forever  between  you  and 
your  real  friends  and  your  work?" 

"  Blackston,  you  don't  know.     She  saved  me  from 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  255 

— well,  heaven  knows  what  misery.  But  I  shall  leave 
here.  I'll  take  her  away  from  New  York.  If  there 
is  any  happiness  coming  to  me,  she  of  all  women  is 
the  one  to  share  it.  Blackston,  if  I  were  to  explain 
for  a  year  you  would  never  understand,  never  know, 
why  it  must  be." 

"  Very  well ;  but  it  all  seems  to  me  a  strange  affair. 
You  say  you've  asked  her  to  marry  you  and  that  she 
refused?"  Blackston  inquired,  with  a  puzzled  expres- 
sion on  his  face. 

"  Yes,"  said  Lexham,  a  little  wearied  with  his 
friend's  solicitude. 

"  Do  you  know  much  about  her  life  before  you  met 
her?" 

"  No,  not  much,  and  I  don't  want  to  know." 

"  But  there  are  many  strange  stories  about  her.  I've 
heard  that  she  was  an  actress  or  a  singer,  and " 

"  What  if  she  was?  What  does  it  matter?  Black- 
ston, you're  letting  your  friendship  for  me  confound 
your  discretion.  You  know  very  well  strange  stories 
are  told  of  all  people  whose  lives  have  at  some  period 
been  straitened.  And  what  should  I  care?  I  know 
what  she  has  been  to  me  and"  what  she  is.  It  is  no 
use  trying  that  old  ghost  on  me." 

Lexham  was  vexed.  He  would  not  hear  a  word  of 
what  gossips  said  about  Elinor's  past. 

"  I'm  sorry  I've  made  you  angry,  but,  believe  me, 
I  can't  help  but  think  she  has  imposed  on  you.  Wait ! 
I'll  give  her  credit  for  all  you  say  she  has  done  for 
you,  but  Madame  Bohemia's  life  at  present,  to  say 
nothing  of  the  past,  doesn't  help  to  balance  things." 

"  Madame  Bohemia.     Why,  Blackston,  you  speak 


256  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

of  her  as  if  she  were  a  frivolous  creature  who  schemed 
night  and  day  to — —  No,  I  shan't  say  any  more. 
You've  surprised  and  hurt  me.  I  thought  you  were 
above  such  tittle-tattle.  It's  horrible.  I'm  very  sorry 
I've  listened  to  you.  What  Windham  has  told  you  is 
perhaps  all  true.  But,  really,  you  must  have  a  poor 
opinion  of  me  if  you  think  I  shall  be  influenced  a 
jot  by  the  chatter  of  fools  who  have  no  other  occupa- 
tion but  that  of  smirching  the  characters  of  men  and 
women.  You  should  know  what  mischief  the  con- 
temptible scandalmonger  is  capable  of  doing.  Even 
this  sobriquet  was  hatched  by  a  harmless  old  lady  in 
the  spirit  of  fun.  It  means  nothing." 

"  In  America  it  has  another  meaning,  and  I  think 
since  real  Bohemianism  passed  away  the  majority  of 
respectable  people  use  it  as  a  term  of  contumely. 
There's  Mrs.  Murray-Smithson,  one  of  your  greatest 
admirers,  and  one  who  has  done  more  than  you  are 
aware  of  for  the  success  of  your  books ;  well,  she  has 
listened  to  the  whispers  of  rumour,  and  now  she  has 
dropped  you.  You  may  think  it  absurd  that  I  should 
mention  it,  but  she  did  not  order  a  copy  of  your  last 
book,  and  when  I  asked  her  the  other  evening  if  she 
had  read  it,  her  answer  was  laconic  and  swift,  '  No/ 
she  said ;  '  I'm  afraid  Mr.  Lexham  has  lost  his 
charm.' ' 

Lexham  laughed  quite  heartily,  and  cried,  "  Poor 
Lexham!  Mrs.  Murray-Smithson  has  damned  him. 
So  that  must  be  the  reason  why  the  book  has  been 
hardly  noticed.  Dear  me!  What  nonsense!  She 
has  heard  some  gossip,  eh  ?  and  pretends  to  be  shocked. 
Um!  Won't  buy  a  copy  because  of  it,  eh?"  . 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  257 

"  Well,  it  is  true  all  the  same,"  Blackston  said,  "  and 
the  world  is  full  of  such  people." 

"  You  call  me  a  bad  business  man,"  Lexham  cried, 
"  because  I  won't  accept  advance  royalties  from  you. 
Perhaps  you  would  call  me  a  fool  if  I  could  convince 
you  that  I  hate  money,  and  that  I  was  far  happier  be- 
fore I  really  knew  anything  about  royalties.  What 
would  you  call  me  if  you  were  aware  of  what  I  intend 
to  do?  That  my  future,  as  far  as  money  and  literary 
fame  are  concerned,  count  as  nothing  compared  to  the 
happiness  of  the  woman  who  you  think  has  imposed 
on  me." 

"  Well,  Lexham,  I  don't  know  what  to  say,"  Black- 
ston muttered ;  "  I  can't  apologise,  I  feel  too  vexed 
with  myself  for  listening  to  such  a  lot  of  bosh.  But 
I'm  sure  what  Windham  says  is  true,  and  if  you  value 
my  friendship,  I  hope  you  will  not  hesitate  to  call  on 
me  should  you  need  any  pecuniary  help." 

"  I  thank  you,  but  don't  doubt  me  if  you  should 
not  hear  from  me  for  a  long  time.  Remember,  Black- 
ston, I  don't  know  another  being  I  should  have  listened 
to  on  this  matter.  Even  now  I  feel  as  if  I  had  done 
her  some  wrong  by  saying  anything  to  you.  I  don't 
think  I  shall  attempt  to  write  another  book.  I  may 
be  tempted  to  do  some  plays  of  the  popular  order. 
If  it  were  not  for  her  I  should  drop  out  of  it.  The 
responsibility  of  living  up  to  standards  is  not  my  metier. 
I  love  all  things  under  the  sun  but  I'm  prone  to  see 
what  I  think  are  the  serious  things  in  this  world. 
My  faults  and  the  faults  of  others  worry  me  beyond 
all  reason.  I've  had  a  pretty  hard  time  of  it,  Black- 
ston, and  perhaps  the  best  in  me  has  been  blighted. 

17 


258  MADAME    BOHEMIA1 

I'm  constantly  at  war  with  myself.  It  is  all  a  futile 
process,  though,  this  striving  to  rise  above  one's  nature. 
I'm  afraid  I'm  a  thing  of  melancholy  platitudes.  But 
I  try  to  preach  only  to  myself.  Yet,  I  hanker  after 
something  I  can't  define.  The  illimitable  and  the  im- 
mensities attract  me,  but  they  don't  disturb  me.  I 
should  not  be  surprised  to  find  that  what  I  yearn  for 
might  be  something  which,  after  all,  lies  close  at  hand. 
A  little  thing  overlooked." 

"  How  do  you  know  but  that  this  very  matter  may 
not  be  the  cause  of  all  your  trouble?  You  are  far 
too  young  for  this  strain.  You  go  nowhere,  you  seem 
to  have  no  pleasures,  no  joy  in  life.  Why,  you  live 
as  old  men  live.  You  want  youth  and  the  happiness 
of  a  home.  I've  noticed  you  many  a  time,  how  differ- 
ent you  are  when  spending  an  hour  upstairs  with  the 
Oldcastles.  When  you  talk  with  Alice  you  seem  like 
another  man."  Blackston  was  quite  enthusiastic,  but 
Lexham  smiled  grimly  and  sighed. 

"Alice!  yes,  she  is  the  very  essence  of  all  that  is 
good.  Who  could  resist  her  sweet  ingenuousness? 
I  would  give  anything  to  have  such  a  sister.  What 
a  tender-hearted  girl!  Blackston,  you  should  see  her 
with  Drake.  If  he  were  all  he  should  be  what  a  wife 
she  would  be  for  him !  But  a  wife ;  dear  me,  she  seems 
such  a  child.  And  Drake,  poor  fellow,  we  haven't 
seen  him  for  nearly  three  weeks.  I  hope  he  is  all 

right." 

******** 

Lexham  went  out  with  Blackston  to  Martin's  res- 
taurant, where  they  had  dinner.  At  a  neighbouring 
table  Mrs.  Laird  and  Gower  sat,  quite  unconscious  of 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  259 

Lexham's  presence.  Gower  had  had  that  morning, 
before  Elinor  took  Mrs.  Sefton  and  her  niece  to  Lex- 
ham's,  a  very  stormy  scene  in  his  room  with  Gertrude. 
She  had  told  him  that  her  aunt  was  tired  of  New  York, 
that  the  doctor  had  advised  her  to  go  to  Florida,  and 
that  she  was  to  accompany  her.  Gower  broke  out  into 
an  hundred  protestations  and  pleadings.  He  felt  his 
one  chance  was  not  to  let  her  go  far  out  of  his  sight 
For  months  he  had  been  obliged  to  write  to  her  often 
twice  a  day  and  persist  in  seeing  her  even  when  she 
was  forced  to  warn  him  of  her  aunt's  suspicions,  and 
that  any  rash  action  would  jeopardise  all.  His  case 
was  desperate  and  he  knew  it.  He  had  ceased  to  love 
her,  but  he  could  not  afford  to  let  her  know  that.  He 
writhed  under  the  necessity  of  make-believe.  Each 
letter  he  wrote  cost  him  hours  of  annoying  toil.  Only 
when  he  was  with  her  could  he  feel  a  little  the  charm 
which  once  awakened  all  that  was  dormant  in  him. 
But  she  had  learned  to  know  him.  She  now  saw  and 
understood  his  warped,  selfish  nature.  For  nearly  two 
years  she  had  striven  to  direct  him,  but  he  had  broken 
nearly  every  promise  she  had  won  from  him.  One 
promise  he  had  kept,  and  that  was  never  again  to  com- 
pose light  music.  She  understood  why  his  comic  opera 
had  failed.  He  had  been  at  work  for  some  months  on 
a  pretentious  subject  of  the  order  of  music  drama,  and 
she  thought  he  had  composed  some  remarkably  good 
music.  Her  only  consolation  was  that  in  his  music 
she  had  influenced  him  a  little.  Still,  she  passed  many 
hours  of  despair,  for  she  sometimes  believed  he  still 
loved  her.  He  had  planned  in  his  usual  way  to  take 
his  opera  when  finished  to  France,  for  there  he  thought 


260  MADAME   BOHEMIA 

he  would  have  a  better  chance  of  getting  it  produced 
as  he  wanted  it. 

The  opera  was  nearly  complete.  He  had  only  some 
scoring  at  the  end  of  the  last  act  to  do.  He  had  ex- 
acted half  a  promise  from  her,  when  he  was  half-way 
through  the  work,  that  she  would  take  a  trip  to  Paris 
when  he  was  there.  And  now  that  the  opera  was 
almost  ready,  he  had  reminded  her  of  the  promise 
given  in  a  moment  when  she  would  have  tried  to  move 
mountains  to  spur  him  on  to  success.  She  was  sur- 
prised that  he  should  think  such  a  thing  at  all  possible, 
that  he  should  even  seriously  remind  her  of  it.  This 
had  been  the  principal  cause  of  their  stormy  interview 
of  the  morning.  If  Lexham  could  have  known,  as 
he  sat  near  by  watching  Gower  and  Gertrude,  what 
their  inmost  thoughts  were,  he  would  have  been  as- 
tonished. She  dare  not  tell  him  that  the  meal  they 
were  then  eating  was  to  be  the  last  of  which  they 
should  partake  together.  The  part  she  played  during 
that  meal  was  full  of  tragedy.  She  saw  two  years 
of  her  life  in  which  she  had  given  all  to  Gower  slipping 
by,  drawing  to  a  close,  and  the  end  of  them  would  mean 
regret  and  sorrow.  Her  heart  was  full  of  a  sadness 
keen  as  ever  woman  felt;  but  all  the  while  would 
come  the  thought  he  has  done  something  different. 
He  had  not  before  she  knew  him  composed  a  work 
such  as  that,  the  end  of  which  she  had  that  morning 
heard  him  play.  He  could  not  before  play  with  the 
passion  he  could  now  express.  Besides,  he  seemed 
now  to  understand  "  The  Ring."  She  did  not  hear 
him  say  he  preferred  "  Lohengrin"  and  "  Tannhauser." 
It  was  all  mystery.  She  could  not  understand  why 


MADAME    BOHEMIA!  261 

the  change  was  noticeable  only  in  his  music.  She 
thought  that  as  his  music  improved  his  temper  grew 
worse.  And  Gower,  what  was  he  thinking  of  at  that 
time?  He  thought  that  though  she  would  have  to  go 
with  her  aunt  to  Florida  that  his  ascendency  over  her 
was  greater  than  ever.  Now  that  his  opera  was  nearly 
completed  he  would  have  a  greater  claim  on  her.  He 
knew  how  proud  she  was  of  his  work,  and  on  that  he 
felt  he  could  stake  his  all.  He  never  felt  so  sure  of 
her.  He  thought  she  would  come  to  him  from  any 
distance  to  be  present  at  the  first  performance  of  that 
work  which  he  called  "  Gertrude's  Opera."  He  had 
told  her  it  was  dedicated  to  G.  L.  Once  during  the 
dinner  she  felt  unequal  to  the  ordeal  of  parting  and 
was  almost  tempted  to  give  him  her  life  come  what 
may,  but  her  resolve  was  firmly  planted,  and  when  they 
left  the  restaurant  her  mind  had  quite  recovered  from 
the  shock  it  had  received  when  she  was  about  to 
relent. 


CHAPTER   XIX 

AFTER  Lexham  left  Blackston  he  went  to  Elinor's 
rooms,  but  was  told  by  the  servant  that  she  was  not 
at  home.  The  servant  was  curt  and  rude  when  he 
inquired  when  Mrs.  Kembleton  might  return  and 
whether  she  had  left  word  where  she  was  going.  As 
he  stood  at  the  open  door  he  heard  the  sound  of  a  piano 
and  guessed  that  Gower  was  in.  He  asked  if  Mr. 
Gower  were  alone,  and  received  a  curt  "  Yes."  Lex- 
ham  walked  past  the  servant  and  went  up  to  the  com- 
poser's room. 

"  Cyril,  I  want  to  wait  till  Diva  returns,"  said  Lex- 
ham  as  he  entered ;  "  I  hope  I  don't  disturb  you." 

"  No,  sit  down,"  said  Gower,  quite  happily.  "  I 
don't  know  how  long  she  will  be,  but  I  shall  be  glad 
of  a  talk.  I  gave  two  piano  lessons  this  morning,  and 
since  then  I've  been  busy  on  my  opera." 

"  I  saw  you  with  Mrs.  Laird  at  Martin's  an  hour 
ago,"  Lexham  remarked. 

"  Yes.  She  and  Mrs.  Sefton  are  going  away  in  a 
day  or  two.  I  think  Diva  is  going  to  give  them  a  fare- 
well evening  to-morrow.  You'll  come,  of  course." 

"  I  didn't  know  they  were  thinking  of  leaving  New 
iYork  so  soon.  I  shall  miss  them,"  Lexham  said. 

"  So  shall  I.  I  don't  know  what  the  deuce  to  do. 
Four  lessons  a  week  at  five  dollars  a  lesson  is  some- 
thing I  shall  sadly  miss.  Curse  the  luck!  I'll  be 
obliged  to  take  the  ordinary  piano  imps  at  one  dollar 
a  lesson.  Isn't  it  damnable?" 
262 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  263 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  it  is,  Cyril,"  Lexham  said,  scarcely 
able  to  hide  the  feeling  of  disgust  which  almost  made 
him  wish  to  strangle  Gower.  . 

"Oh,  but  it  will  all  come  right  You  see,  Mrs. 
Laird  will  surely  get  her  divorce  this  winter,  then  no 
more  piano  lessons  for  me,  no  more  debts  and  worries. 
I  shall  go  to  France  and  work  only  when  I  feel  like  it 
Then  there  will  be  an  end  to  all  the  grind." 

"  And  what  will  Diva  do  ?"  Lexham  asked. 

"  Oh,  she'll  get  along.  Marry,  I  suppose,  and  give 
up  this  life  of  hand  to  mouth  business.  You  know  I've 
never  liked  her  idea  of  collecting  embryo  artists,  mu- 
sicians, and  litterateurs.  People  think  it  is  not  good 
form,  and  these  evenings  which  she  persists  in  giving 
bring  together  only  a  lot  of  nobodies.  Of  course  we 
must  humour  her,  but  I  can't  see  what  amusement  she 
gets  from  such  a  motley  gang.  Coffee  and  cigarettes, 
small  talk  and  mutual  admiration ;  and  I  don't  like  that 
sobriquet  (for  it  has  clung  to  her)  Madame  Bohemia. 
The  deuce!  why  not  call  her  Frau  Kindergarten  and 
have  done  with  it?" 

Lexham  arose  and  took  up  his  hat.  He  felt  he 
could  not  listen  for  another  moment  to  Gower. 

"  I  can't  wait  any  longer.  Good-night.  It's  nine 
o'clock.  If  Diva  should  return  soon,  tell  her  I  may 
look  in  about  ten." 

"All  right.     Sorry  you're  in  such  a  hurry,  Lexham." 

******** 

After  Gertrude  left  Gower  at  her  hotel  she  went  up 
to  her  aunt's  rooms.  The  dear  old  lady  was  at  the 
piano. 

"Auntie,  I'm  sorry  to  disturb  you,  but  I  want  to 


264  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

know  if  you  could  arrange  for  us  to  leave  the  day 
after  to-morrow  instead  of  waiting  till  the  end  of  the 
week?" 

"  Yes,  Gertrude ;  but  why  so  soon  ?" 

Mrs.  Sefton  thought  she  had  never  seen  her  niece 
look  so  ill  and  tired.  She  had  noticed  during  the  after- 
noon that  Gertrude  was  not  in  her  usual  good  spirits. 
But  the  dear  old  lady  guessed  that  her  niece  had  had  a 
quarrel  with  Gower,  and  though  she  had  of  late  on 
several  occasions  tried  to  open  a  discussion  on  the 
subject,  which  was  her  only  cause  for  disquietude, 
Gertrude  always  refused  to  be  questioned,  and  Mrs. 
Sefton,  with  many  misgivings,  had  to  be  ruled  by  the 
younger  mind. 

"Auntie,  I've  done  all  I  can  for  Cyril.  He  has  fin- 
ished his  opera,  and  now — now "  There  were 

tears  in  her  eyes.  "  Well,  I  have  made  up  my  mind 
never  to  see  him  after  we  leave  here.  Whether  I've 
done  wrong  or  no  doesn't  much  matter.  But  I'm  sure 
he  will  never  do  much  while  I  am  near  him.  To 
get  him  to  compose  this  opera  has  cost  me  more 
than  I  dare  tell.  And  I  can't  rid  myself  of  the 
thought  that  he  thinks  more  of  my  money  than  he 
does  of  me.  I  suppose  I  shall  never  be  divorced, 
and  I  can't  go  on  living  year  after  year  in  this 
way." 

She  was  at  her  aunt's  side.  The  dear  oIH  lady's 
arms  were  about  her. 

"  Poor  Gertrude !"  Mrs.  Sefton  murmured ;  "  another 
idol  broken.  I  don't  know,  dear,  what  to  say.  I  have 
never  wished  to  upbraid  you,  though  I've  for  a  long 
time  felt  it  was  all  wrong.  I  don't  know  what  it  was 


MADAME    BOHEMIA'  265 

in  him  that  I  liked.  We  always  got  on  very  well  to- 
gether. Perhaps  it  was  the  music." 

"  Yes,  auntie,  I  loved  him  for  the  music,"  Gertrude 
said.  "  I  thought,  I  hoped  he  would  change,  that  he 
would  become  generous  and  kind,  show  some  affection 
for  Elinor,  but  he  hasn't.  I  think  he  still  loves  me  in 
a  way;  but  if  I  were  poor  I  feel  sure  he  would  have 
no  love  for  me.  I've  hungered  since  I  was  a  girl  for 
a  good  man's  love.  In  Cyril  I  thought  I  saw  great 
possibilities,  and  now  I'm  no  better  than  the  man  from 
whom  I  have  wished  to  be  divorced." 

"  Gertrude,  hush ;  I  shan't  listen  to  such  preposter- 
ous nonsense.  If  you  have  done  wrong,  you  did  so 
thinking  right  would  come  of  it.  The  idea !  No  better 
than  a  gambling,  drunken  scoundrel.  You  shock  me, 
dear.  Goodness  gracious !  if  the  man  had  treated  you 
half  decently  you  would  never  have  met  Cyril.  You 
have  always  been  a  good,  high-minded  woman,  and 
I'll  not  hear  anything  to  the  contrary.  You  were  kind 
and  forgiving  for  six  years  to  Mr.  Laird,  but  he  never 
appreciated  you.  Any  other  woman  was  good  enough, 
any.  Come,  dear,  don't  grieve;  you've  made  a  mis- 
take, but  you  are  still  young,  and  much  happiness  may 
be  yet  in  store  for  you.  Goodness  knows  you  deserve 
some,  for  you've  had  little  since  you  met  your  hus- 
band." 

"Auntie,  let  us  take  the  children  with  us,  stunewhere 
away  from  here  and  Boston.  I  feel  it  is  so  wrong  to 
leave  them  alone  at  school.  All  this  trouble  must  hap- 
pen in  the  beginning.  You  know  poor  mother  never 
had  time  to  look  after  us.  I  want  to  devote  all  my  life 
to  the  boy  and  the  girls.  Let  us  make  a  home  for  them 


266  MADAME   BOHEMIA 

far  away  from  towns,  somewhere  where  they  will  not 
know  any  other  need  but  me." 

Mrs.  Sefton  was  childless,  and  though  she  did  not 
quite  understand  the  great  love,  which  may  sometimes 
sleep,  but  which  glows  again  when  sorrow  comes  to  the 
mother  or  sickness  and  death  to  the  child,  she  was  glad 
to  hear  Gertrude  speak  of  her  little  ones,  and  she  at 
once  determined  to  help  her  to  do  anything  she  wished 
for  their  happiness. 

"  Very  well,  dear,  I  shall  be  glad  to  do  anything  you 
wish.  You  know  I've  never  much  cared  for  children, 
that  is,  perhaps,  because  I've  never  known  what  it  is 
to  bear  one.  We  can't  help  our  natures,  but  you  know 
I  try  to  be  as  practical  as  possible.  Are  you  quite  sure, 
Gertrude,  that  you  will  be  content  with  so  quiet  a  life? 
After  so  much  music,  the  theatres,  and  amusements?" 

"  Yes,  I  think  so.  I'll  enjoy  it  from  afar.  Yes, 
it  will  be  a  bit  of  a  wrench  to  leave  it  all,  auntie,  but 
I  shall  understand  and  enjoy  it  all  the  more  for  having 
taken  one  glimpse  into  a  world  where  life  seems  worth 
living.  Poor  Elinor !  I  would  change  places  with  her. 
She  has  a  lover,  she  has  debts,  and  she  lives  apart  from 
society.  You  see  what  small  creatures  we  are,  auntie ; 
we  find  excuses  for  her  faults  because  we  love  her  and 
know  her,  but  if  she  were  a  stranger  we  would  now  be 
singing  with  the  chorus  of  condemnatory  voices." 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  we  should,  Gertrude.  I  shall  miss 
her  very  much.  I  wonder  what  will  become  of  them." 

"Aunt,  I  want  to  do  something  for  them  before  I 
go.  I'm  sure  you  will  be  with  me.  Cyril  one  day  got 
half  a  promise  from  me  that  I  would  go  to  Paris  when 
he  was  there.  I  believe  he  wants  to  go,  for  he  thinks 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  267 

his  opera  will  have  a  better  chance  there.  He  says 
grand  opera  has  little  or  no  chance  in  England  or 
America.  Well,  I  want  him  to  have  money  enough 
to  carry  him  to  Europe  and  allow  him  to  stay  there  for 
several  months.  You  know  I  think  they  have  hardly 
a  dollar  in  the  world." 

"  Yes,  dear;  but  don't  you  think  he  would  be  obliged 
to  decline  your  offer?  I  don't  know  how  you  can 
possibly  overcome  that  sort  of  diffidence  he  must  have ; 
for  men,  I  think,  don't,  as  a  rule,  accept  such  presents, 
particularly,  dear,  in  such  a  case  as  this." 

"  I  wish  I  could  think  so,  auntie,"  Gertrude  said, 
with  a  sigh. 

"  But  surely  you  know  how  difficult  it  was  for  us 
to  get  him  to  accept  the  money  for  the  lessons,"  Mrs. 
Sefton  retorted. 

"  Don't  let  us  refer  to  that  side  of  his  nature.  I  have 
a  plan.  I  feel  sure  I  can  ask  Mr.  Lexham  to  help  me 
out  of  this  difficulty.  I  don't  care  whom  he  may  think 
the  money  comes  from  if  he  gets  it.  I  could  let  my 
cheque,  say  for  two  thousand  dollars,  go  through  Mr, 
Lexham's  bank,  and  he  could  give  Cyril  the  money. 
Of  course  he  must  first  promise  that  the  money  will  be 
used  only  to  pay  his  expenses  during  his  stay  in  Europe 
and  that  he  will  strive  to  get  his  work  produced  during 
that  time." 

"  Yes,  that  is  all  very  well,  but  what  is  to  become 
of  Elinor?"  Mrs.  Sefton  asked,  at  the  same  time  wish- 
ing she  would  accept  a  small  annuity  from  her. 

"Ah,  Elinor  is  quite  a  different  person  to  deal  with. 
Of  course  she  must  have  been  dependent  on  Mr.  Lex- 
ham,  and  it  is  just  that  which  makes  me  believe  her 


268  MADAME    BOHEMIA1 

case  an  exception.  I  know  they  are  just  as  good  as 
married.  But  she  would  starve  before  she  would  ac- 
cept charity.  Of  that  I'm  sure.  Anyway,  I'll  run  over 
to  Mr.  Lexham  and  sound  him  on  Cyril's  matter." 

"  Gertrude,  dear,  not  at  this  time  of  night !"  Mrs. 
Sefton  cried. 

"  Pooh,  auntie,  it  is  not  yet  ten  o'clock.  The  best 
time  to  catch  him;  besides,  I  should  like  to  have  it 
all  settled  to-morrow.  Now  don't  worry,  dear,  I  shall 
jump  into  a  cab.  Don't  retire  before  I  return." 

When  she  reached  Lexham's  rooms  he  was  out,  but 
she  asked  if  she  might  go  to  his  study,  where  she 
wished  to  write  a  note  to  leave  for  him.  It  was 
not  so  much  the  wish  to  write  the  note  as  it  was  a 
desire  to  wait  a  few  minutes  in  the  hope  that  he  might 
come  in  while  she  was  there.  She  wasted  some  time 
in  finding  note-paper,  then  drew  off  her  gloves  and 
removed  her  veil.  Fifteen  minutes  passed  before  she 
began  the  note. 

WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

DEAR  MR.  LEXHAM, — I  wish  to  see  you  on  a  matter 
of  some  importance  to  me,  but  as  you  may  not  return 
till  later  than  I  dare  wait,  will  you  kindly  let  me  know 
what  time  to-morrow  you  will  be  able  to  spare  me  a 
few  minutes  ?  Please  don't  mention  this  to  Mr.  Gowef 
should  you  see  him  before  I  see  you. 

Sincerely  yours, 

GERTRUDE  LAIRD. 

She  sealed  the  note  and  left  it  on  his  desk.  In  taking 
off  her  veil  she  accidentally  loosened  a  large  tortoise- 
shell  hairpin.  This  dropped  on  the  carpet  behind  the 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  269 

chair  in  which  she  was  seated  when  she  wrote  the 
note.  The  hairpin  was  mounted  in  gold  and  was  one 
of  two  which  Gower  had  given  her  on  her  birthday. 
Some  of  the  dollars  he  had  borrowed  from  Lexham 
paid  for  the  pins. 

As  she  left  the  street  door  to  enter  the  cab,  which 
she  Had  kept  waiting,  she  almost  ran  into  a  man,  who 
stepped  aside  to  let  her  pass.  It  was  Drake.  He  was 
surprised  to  see  her  leave  Lexham's  at  so  late  an  hour. 
Windham  had  told  him  all  he  had  heard  of  the  different 
affairs  and  rows  which  were  the  common  talk  of  other 
lodgers  at  the  house  where  Elinor  lived.  Somehow, 
Drake  was  glad  to  think  there  was  something  between 
Lexham  and  Mrs.  Laird  of  which  Gower  was  ignorant. 
Drake  began  to  despise  Gower. 

When  Gertrude  returned  to  her  hotel  she  found  her 
aunt  up  and  anxious  to  hear  what  Lexham  had  to 
say. 

"  Well,  dear,  you  haven't  been  long,"  Mrs.  Sefton 
said,  composing  herself  to  listen. 

"  No ;  he  wasn't  in,  so  I  left  a  note,"  Gertrude  re- 
plied, with  some  disappointment. 

"  Oh !"  ejaculated  her  aunt  in  the  same  mood. 
"  Wouldn't  it  be  just  as  well  to  speak  to  Elinor  about 
it?"  the  dear  old  lady  ventured  to  remark. 

"  No,  auntie ;  oh,  dear,  no.  Elinor  wouldn't  listen 
to  such  a  proposal,  I'm  sure  she  wouldn't.  No,  Mr. 
Lexham  is  the  only  one  who  can  help  us  out  of  the 
difficulty,  and  I'm  sure  he  will  find  a  very  simple  way 
of  doing  it.  Men  understand  such  matters  much  bet- 
ter than  we  do."  Gertrude  sighed  heavily. 

"  But,  Gertrude,  surely  you  don't  think  Mr.  Lexham 


270  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

knows  anything  about  you  and  Cyril?"  Mrs.  Sefton 
cried,  rising  in  a  state  of  great  astonishment  under 
her  sudden  thought,  which  was  a  surprise  she  could 
hardly  withstand. 

"  Of  course  he  knows/'  was  her  niece's  laconic  an- 
swer. 

"  Oh,  dear  me,  how  dreadful !  I  shall  never  be  able 
to  look  the  man  straight  in  the  face  again.  Gertrude, 
Gertrude,  what  is  to  be  done  ?  Fancy  anyone  but  our- 
selves knowing  it!  What  you  must  have  suffered!" 
The  dear  old  lady  was  terribly  distressed,  but  Ger- 
trude took  it  all  so  calmly  that  her  aunt  ceased  her 
lamentations  for  want  of  support. 

Then  Gertrude  suddenly  broke  out  into  an  almost 
uncontrollable  fit  of  passion,  and  cried, — 

"  Yes,  it  is  dreadful,  isn't  it,  aunt,  when  someone 
else  knows?  It  is  not  so  much  the  offence,  if  it  be 
one,  as  the  consternation  it  causes.  But  don't  be  un- 
necessarily alarmed,  Mr.  Lexham  will  deal  gently  with 
me.  He  knows,  thank  goodness,  a  little  more  than  the 
frigid  herd." 

Mrs.  Sefton  had  never  seen  her  niece  aroused  to  such 
a  pitch  of  anger.  Gertrude  walked  up  and  down  the 
room  in  a  state  of  bitter  indignation,  gesticulating 
violently  and  smothering  her  sobs  in  her  handkerchief. 
For  days  she  had  been  enduring  more  suffering  in  try- 
ing to  control  herself  and  calmly  reason  out  her  plans 
for  the  future  than  if  she  had  let  her  grief  break  out  and 
spend  itself  in  one  paroxysm.  The  dear  old  lady  for- 
got all  about  Lexham's  knowledge  of  the  affair,  and  in 
that  moment  her  love  for  Gertrude  was  strong  enough 
to  resent  any  scorn  and  all  the  world's  contumely. 


MADAME   BOHEMIA  271 

What  reproaches  could  equal  Gertrude's  own  chidings  ? 
What  disdain  could  make  more  keen  the  acute  suffer- 
ing she  felt?  Mrs.  Sefton  took  her  niece  in  her  arms 
and  offered  her  breast  for  the  aching  head,  just  as  she 
once  did  for  Elinor  when  all  her  being  in  great  distress 
cried  out  for  some  words  of  love  and  comfort.  When 
Gertrude  recovered  from  the  fit  and  she  had  conquered 
the  sobbing  and  the  tears,  she  arose,  and  in  a  mood  so 
calm  in  contrast  to  the  fit  she  had  suffered,  she  found 
pen  and  paper  and  began  to  write. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do,  dear?"  her  aunt  asked 
in  wonderment. 

"Hush,  auntie;  I'm  writing  to  Mr.  Lexham.  I 
shan't  rest  to-night  till  I  know  that  all  will  be  settled 
to-morrow,"  she  said,  and  with  her  head  resting  on  her 
hand  she  began  the  following  letter: 

BRABANT  HOTEL. 

MY  DEAR  MR.  LEXHAM, — Half  an  hour  ago  I  left  a 
note  on  your  desk  which  I  hope  you  have  received.  In 
the  note  I  said  I  wished  to  see  you  on  a  matter  of  import- 
ance and  asked  when  you  could  see  me  to-morrow. 
Now  I  find  the  matter  more  urgent  than  I  imagined, 
and  must  tell  you  without  further  delay  the  favour 
which  I  think  you  will  do  for  me.  We  have  not  often 
met,  but  from  the  first  time,  nearly  two  years  ago,  I 
have  felt  that  between  us  there  existed  a  tacit  under- 
standing. To  be  plain,  and  this  matter  will  not  bear 
any  nice  distinctions  or  circumlocution,  I  believe  you 
have  from  the  first  known  of  my  and  Mr.  Gower's 
affair.  Forgive  my  bluntness ;  if  I  really  understand 
you,  you  prefer  direct  statements.  The  time  is  come 


272  MADAME   BOHEMIA 

when  I  must  take  up  positive  duties  which  through 
my  want  of  discretion  I  have  neglected,  and  Mr.  Gower 
and  I  must  go  our  separate  ways.  But  though  he  may 
be  insincere  and  not  love  me  for  myself  alone,  I  think 
it  only  just  to  make  some  reparation  in  leaving  him  so 
suddenly.  He  has  just  finished  an  opera  which  he 
says  I  was  wholly  instrumental  in  urging  him  to  ac- 
complish. This  work  he  wishes  to  take  to  France, 
there  to  find  a  producer.  Having  his  welfare  at  heart, 
and  with  oh !  so  dear  a  wish  to  be  the  one  who  through 
self-sacrifice  brought  him  to  persevere  and  attain  to 
better  things,  I  want  now  to  give  him  a  sum  of  money 
which  should  be  enough  to  pay  the  expenses  of  an 
European  trip  of  say  a  year's  duration.  In  doing  this 
I  want  your  help.  Of  course  I  can't  give  him  the 
money,  nor  do  I  care  that  he  should  know  it  came  from 
me.  Will  you  do  this  for  me?  If  I  send  you  a  cheque 
for  two  thousand  dollars  will  you  pass  it  through  your 
bank  and  give  him  your  cheque  for  the  amount  ?  You 
can  make  any  excuse  you  like,  for  I  fear  he  will  not 
much  care  who  the  donor  is.  How  I  wish  he  would 
care!  You  know  him,  perhaps,  even  better  than  I  do, 
though  of  late  he  has  not  been  able  to  hide  his  worst 
defects  of  character  from  me.  May  I  hope  for  a  line 
from  you  to-night  ?  You  will,  I'm  sure,  appreciate  all 
I  now  endure.  I  should  so  like  to  have  this  matter  set- 
tled to-morrow,  so  that  I  may  leave  here  the  next  day. 

Forgive  me  for  troubling  you.     You  are  the  only 
one  who  can  realise  my  difficulty  and  help  me. 

With  my  warmest  regards  and  best  wishes, 
Ever  yours, 

GERTRUDE  LAIRD.- 


MADAME   BOHEMIA  273 

She  rang  for  a  messenger  boy,  and  told  him  to  wait 
for  an  answer  should  Mr.  Lexham  be  at  home ;  other- 
wise to  leave  the  letter.  The  boy  soon  returned  and 
said,  "  He  was  not  in,  so  I  left  it."  Lexham  had  gone 
for  a  walk  round  his  old  haunts  after  he  left  Gower. 
Through  the  neighbourhood  of  South  Fifth  Avenue 
and  Bleecker  Street  he  sauntered  for  an  hour.  He 
stopped  at  the  flight  of  steps  down  which,  in  Guarini's 
restaurant,  he  met  Drake  and  Gower.  But  another 
sign  was  over  the  door.  It  was  no  longer  the  place  for. 
famous  spaghetti.  The  present  occupant  sold  potatoes, 
coal,  and  butter.  He  could  not  resist  the  impulse  to 
descend  and  look  at  the  changed  room.  A  fat  old 
woman  sat  behind  the  counter  and  looked  at  him  in 
wonder. 

"  Why,  if  it  isn't  Mr.  Lexham !"  she  exclaimed. 
He  turned  and  looked  at  her. 

"  Mrs.  Morris  ?"  he  asked.  A  former  landlady  of 
his. 

"  Yes,  of  course  it  is.  Well,  you  do  look  out  of 
sight,  sir,"  she  cried,  taking  his  outstretched  hand  and 
giving  it  a  hearty  shake. 

"  So  you've  gone  into  business,  eh  ?  What  has 
become  of  Guarini  ?" 

"  Oh,  he's  broke.  Waitin'  at  some  restaurant  on 
Second  Avenue.  Lots  o'  gentleman  come  an'  ask  fur 
him.  And  what  bisiness  are  you  in,  sir?" 

"  Writing,  Mrs.  Morris,"  said  Lexham,  with  a  smile. 

"  Um !  Hope  you're  doin'  better  'an  yer  did,  sir. 
Isn't  a  steady  bisiness,  is  it?" 

"  No ;  but  I'm  doing  a  little  better.  Are  you  doing 
well?" 

18 


274  MADAME   BOHEMIA1 

"Oh,  just  gettin'  along.  Kind  a  slow  sometimes 
down  here,  but  there's  been  three  meals  a  day  comin' 
to  me  pretty  reg'lar  like." 

"  Give  me  a  pound  of  biscuits,  Mrs.  Morris,  will 
you?"  Lexham  felt  he  must  buy  something  of  the 
woman,  and  could  think  of  nothing  else. 

"  Certainly.  What  kind  d'yer  like,  sir?  Them  with' 
currins  in's  nice." 

"They  will  do  nicely." 

In  paying  for  them  he  found  that  only  one  dollar 
and  some  small  change  remained.  Elinor  had  not  sent 
the  usual  amount.  It  was  the  first  time  she  had  missed, 
and  he  till  that  moment  had  forgotten  the  weekly 
cheque.  He  remembered  what  Blackston  had  a  few 
hours  before  told  him  how  Windham  had  heard  of 
Elinor's  row  with  her  landlady.  Was  it  possible  that 
all  the  money  was  spent? 

He  went  again  to  Elinor's,  but  she  had  not  reached 
home.  It  was  eleven  o'clock  when  he  found  Gertrude's 
letters  on  his  desk.  The  servant  told  him  that  Mrs. 
Kembleton  had  called  early  in  the  evening  just  after 
he  went  out  with  Mr.  Blackston.  When  he  was  left 
alone  he  read  the  second  letter  over  and  over  again. 
His  mind  was  too  confused  to  think  calmly  of  a  good 
plan  which  would  serve  to  solve  her  difficulty.  He 
had  for  many  months  past  looked  on  Gower  as  quite 
a  person  apart  from  Elinor.  He  thought  Gertrude's 
desire  was  a  noble  one,  and  for  Gower's  sake  he  was 
anxious  to  accede  to  her  request.  But  the  events  of 
the  day,  Elinor's  position,  what  he  had  an  hour  before 
seen  and  experienced,  together  with  the  bitter  moments 
of  retrospect,  completely  unnerved  him  and  made  in- 


•MADAME    BOHEMIA  275 

superable  impediments  of  small  matters  which  in  mo- 
ments of  calm  would  have  not  occurred  to  him.  What 
seemed  in  his  confused  state  of  mind  the  greatest  diffi- 
culty of  all  was  that  he  had  no  bank  account.  Then 
that  matter  which  in  her  letter  Gertrude  had  told 
him  to  think  of  least — of  whom  the  real  donor  might 
be — bothered  his  speculations  most.  And  yet  he  felt 
that  Gower  would  accept  the  money  without  the  least 
compunction.  At  length  he  sat  down  and  wrote  the 
following  letter : 

MY  DEAR  MRS.  LAIRD,, — I  have  for  some  time  felt 
that  I've  understood  what  is  come  to  pass.  Even  this 
afternoon  when  you  were  here  I  then  thought  your 
emotions  had  undergone  a  serious  change.  It  is  hardly 
necessary  for  me  to  assure  you  how  deeply  I  feel  for 
you  and  how  thoroughly  I  appreciate  the  generous 
spirit  which  prompts  you  to  do  so  much  for  one  who 
should  have  been  all  in  all  to  you.  I  will  gladly  do 
anything  in  my  power,  and  if  you  will  come  here  to- 
morrow about  noon  I  shall  by  then  have  thought  of 
some  plan  which  I  hope  will  make  it  an  easy  matter 
for  you  to  accomplish  the  end  you  desire.  I  wish  I 
had  been  in  when  you  called  this  evening.  I'm  sure 
he  doesn't  suspect  the  slightest  change  in  you.  Per- 
haps it  is  better  so,  for  you  will  have  gone  before  he 
will  really  understand  what  has  taken  place  and  what  it 
means  to  him. 

Believe  me,  ever  sincerely  yours, 
GILBERT  LEX  HAM. 

He  took  the  letter  over  to  her  hotel  and  told  the  at- 
tendant to  have  it  sent  up  at  once  to  Mrs.  Lairct  It 


276  MADAME    BOHEMIA1 

was  not  till  he  was  on  his  way  back  to  his  rooms  that 
he  thought  of  how  the  whole  matter  of  Gertrude  and 
Gower  would  affect  Elinor.  Would  she  like  his  inter- 
ference? Was  he  doing  right  in  lending  his  aid  to  a 
scheme  which  would  surely  cause  a  separation  between 
Elinor  and  Gower?  He  was  sorry  he  had  promised 
so  much  in  his  letter,  and  soon  began  to  regret  the 
engagement  he  had  made  for  the  morrow. 

Elinor  had  of  late  realised  that  she  would  have  to 
exert  herself  in  some  way  to  find  employment.  The 
agents  said  they  could  book  no  more  dates  for  her  re- 
citals. She  was  told  that  her  class  of  entertainment 
was  played  out.  Elinor  was  not  prepared  for  so  sud- 
den a  termination  of  her  career  as  a  reader.  She  had 
hoped  for  a  long  autumn  tour,  the  proceeds  of  which 
she  thought  would  help  her  to  pay  off  some  of  her  debts 
and  give  her  a  chance  to  begin  again  on  a  far  simpler 
scale.  For  several  weeks  she  had  hoped  against  hope, 
but  nothing  came.  Many  times  she  had  tried  to  let 
Lexham  know  that  they  were  fast  reaching  the  state 
in  which  they  were  in  the  spring,  when  he  had  to  finish 
in  haste  the  play  the  advance  royalties  of  which  helped 
them  out  of  their  difficulties  for  only  a  few  months. 
The  glamour  of  love  had  slowly  diminished  and  had 
left  a  cold,  clear  light,  in  which  she  saw  herself  and 
all  things  which  appertained  to  Lexham  as  serious 
facts,  with  outlines  hard  and  repellant.  She  loved  him 
none  the  less.  The  circumstances  were  changed. 

Late  in  the  evening  Elinor  started  out  with  the  bag 
of  jewelry.  The  shop  of  the  pawnbroker  who  had  lent 
her  money  many  times  before  was  closed.  For  hours 
she  roamed  about  Third  Avenue  and  the  Bowery,  stop- 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  "277 

ping  at  the  windows  of  several  pawnshops  only  to 
find  her.  courage  desert  her  the  moment  she  got  to  the 
door.  At  last  she  came  to  a  likely  shop.  She  looked 
in.  There  were  no  customers  at  the  counter.  She 
handed  her  bag  to  a  young  man,  who  closely  examined 
each  piece  of  jewelry.  During  this  process  she  became 
so  agitated  that  when  the  pawnbroker  began  to  question 
her  she  lost  all  heart,  picked  up  her  bag,  and  left  the 
shop  covered  with  confusion.  She  reached  home  at 
midnight,  having  walked  about  the  streets  till  that  hour 
so  that  she  would  not  see  Lexham,  for  she  felt  quite 
unequal  to  the  task  of  telling  him.  She  passed  a  sleep- 
less night,  and  morning  found  her  thoroughly  disheart- 
ened. 


'CHAPTER   XX 

LEXHAM  was  soon  astir  the  next  morning,  but  when 
he  inquired  for  Elinor  he  was  told  she  was  out.  It 
never  occurred  to  him  that  he  could  have  raised  a 
good  amount  on  the  furniture  in  his  rooms.  If  he 
had  not  owned  a  single  chair  or  even  a  pawnable  article, 
he  could  not  well  have  imagined  himself  in  a  worse 
plight.  When  he  heard  the  servant  say  "  Mrs.  Kem- 
bleton  went  out  an  hour  ago"  he  was  instantly  thrown 
Into  a  fever  of  excitement  to  find  her,  but  he  did  not 
know  in  which  direction  to  turn.  He  learned  that 
Gower  was  not  out  of  bed.  Gertrude  was  busy  pre- 
paring for  the  journey  of  the  next  day,  and  anxious 
for  the  hour  to  come  when  she  would  meet  Lexham. 

It  was  about  noon  when  Alice  was  putting  fresh 
flowers  in  the  glasses  on  Lexham' s  desk.  She  and  the 
maid  had  been  busy  making  tidy  the  room.  It  was  a 
beautiful  November  day,  but  cold  with  the  first  breath 
of  winter.  There  was  a  gentle  knock  on  the  door. 
Thinking  it  might  be  Lexham,  who  knew  it  was  sweep- 
ing day,  she  quickly  gathered  the  broken  stems  and 
leaves,  which  she  rolled  up  in  a  paper  and  hid  in  the 
waste-paper  basket.  Again  there  was  a  knock,  if  any- 
thing gentler  than  the  first.  She  ran  to  the  door  and 
opened  it,  half-hiding  herself  behind  it.  But  no  one 
entered.  Peeping  round  the  edge  of  the  door  she  saw 
Drake  standing  with  his  back  to  her,  evidently  not 
aware  that  the  door  was  open.  There  he  stood  rub- 
278 


MADAME   BOHEMIA  279 

bing  his  hands  and  shuffling  his  feet.  Had  the  cold 
driven  him  home  ? 

"  Well,  Dick  Drake !"  Alice  cried,  glad  to  see  him, 
though  she  felt  disappointed,  for  she  expected  Lexham. 

"  The  Angel  upstairs,"  Drake  said  the  moment  after 
he  had  turned.  He  had  for  many  months  to  Lexham 
called  Alice  "  the  Angel  upstairs." 

"  What !"  she  exclaimed,  surprised  at  the  expression 
he  used  and  at  the  strange  look  in  his  eyes. 

"  I  mean  Alice — I  should  say,  Miss  Oldcastle,"  he 
murmured  apologetically,  crossing  the  room  to  the  fire- 
place. 

"  Alice  only  when  you  are  good." 

"  I  haven't  had  a  drop  to  drink  since " 

"  Dick  Drake !  Be  careful !  You  have  been  a  very 
naughty  fellow,"  she  said  in  remonstrance,  and  added, 
"  Don't  tell  me  anything  about  temperance  lectures." 

"  I  was  about  to  say,  Alice "  he  stopped,  while 

she  gave  him  a  quizzical  glance.  "  I  repeat,  Alice," 
putting  some  stress  on  her  name,  "  that  I've  had  neither 
food  nor  drink  since  yesterday." 

"Good  gracious!  Why?"  she  asked  in  a  very 
serious  tone. 

"  Why  ?  Ah,  that  is  a  great  social  question,"  he 
said,  sorry  that  the  word  food  escaped,  for  it  sounded 
to  him  like  a  beggar's  whine. 

"  But  you  must  be  hungry." 

"  So  it  seems,"  he  said,  with  a  smile ;  "  but  don't  be 
alarmed,  Alice,  you've  no  idea  what  a  popular  pastime 
hunger  has  become  with  certain  classes." 

"  But  you,  Dick,  and  once  so  famous,"  she  said. 

"Yes,  it  is  strange,  isn't  it?" 


280  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

He  was  standing  with  his  back  to  the  fire,  and  she 
leaned  over  the  back  of  a  chair  watching  him.  He 
started  and  trembled.  His  eyes  were  fixed  on  her. 
There  was  a  stern  expression  on  his  face,  the  muscles 
of  which  seemed  to  twitch  as  if  in  pain.  She  shrank 
back,  and  he  stretched  out  his  arms  to  her.  Something 
like  a  moan  came  from  him.  Alice,  at  first  startled, 
ran  to  him  and  cried,  "  Dick !  Dick !  what's  the  mat- 
ter?" She  turned  a  chair,  on  which  he  sank.  He 
looked  quite  stupified,  as  if  he  were  under  the  influence 
of  a  drug.  She  shook  him  gently :  "  Oh,  dear,  dear, 
you're  going  to  be  ill  again !  What  am  I  to  do  with 
such  a  wicked  fellow,  Dick?" 

He  revived  and  looked  curiously  at  her. 

"  There !"  she  exclaimed,  with  a  sigh  of  relief,  "  do 
you  feel  better  ?" 

"Angels  with  iridescent  wings,"  he  muttered  to  him- 
self. There  was  a  sneer  playing  around  his  mouth. 
"  Bah !"  he  ejaculated,  and  shuddered. 

"  Come,"  she  said,  helping  him  to  rise,  "  rest  on 
the  lounge  awhile.  I'll  get  you  something  to  drink. 
You're  weak,  Dick.  There !"  She  led  him  across  the 
room  and  left  him  lying  down.  He  listened  to  the 
sound  of  her  feet  hurrying  upstairs. 

Since  Drake  first  came  to  live  with  Lexham  he  had 
been  very  careful  not  to  leave  any  wine  or  spirits  out 
on  the  sideboard,  in  fact,  he  never  drank  in  his  pres- 
ence. But  Drake  had  been  away  for  several  days,  and 
Lexham  had  the  day  before  forgotten  to  lock  up  his 
decanters.  No  sooner  was  Alice  out  of  sound  than 
Drake  arose  and  went  to  the  sideboard.  Listening  for 
a  moment,  to  make  sure  that  no  one  was  near  to  detect 


Listening  for  a  moment 


MADAME    BOHEMIA!  281 

him,  he  poured  some  brandy  into  a  glass  and  drank  it 
off  at  one  gulp.  He  hid  the  glass  and  then  stood 
still  awaiting  the  effect  and  sensation.  Again  he 
helped  himself  to  a  bigger  drink,  almost  a  tumblerful. 
A  noise  disturbed  him.  He  again  hid  the  glass  and 
went  back  quickly  to  the  lounge  and  lay  on  it  as  if  he 
had  not  stirred  since  Alice  left  the  room.  In  walked 
Gower. 

"  Lexham,"  he  began,  not  seeing  Drake  on  the 
lounge. 

"  Not  in,"  said  Drake. 

"That  you,  Drake?"  Gower  asked,  as  he  turned 
towards  him. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  pretending  to  be  half-asleep. 

"Drunk?" 

"  No." 

"  Have  you  any  money  ?" 

"No."  " 

"  Damnation !"  said  Gower,  with  some  emphasis. 

"Why?"    Drake  asked  in  a  languid  way. 

"  Oh,  confound  it !  I've  got  Mrs.  Laird  in  a  cab  at 
the  door.  We've  been  about  shopping,  and  I  can't 
take  her  home  till  I  get  some  money  to  pay  the  cabby." 

"  The  wealthy  Mrs.  Laird  imprisoned  in  a  cab  and 
poor  Gower  can't  go  bail  for  her,"  Drake  said,  with  a 
chuckle. 

"  There's  nothing  to  chuckle  at.  When  will  Lex- 
ham  be  in  ?" 

"Chuckle?  You're  right.  It's  shameful,"  Drake 
said  in  a  mocking  tone.  "  Penury  and  Wealth  in  the 
same  cab,  and  Penury  can't  take  Wealth  home  because 
Penury  can't  pay  for  the  use  of  Wealth's  vehicle." 


282  MADAME    BOHEMIA1 

"  Shut  up,  Drake !"  Gower  cried  from  the  window, 
where  he  stood  watching  for  Lexham. 

"  But  Penury  has  a  tongue.  Why  can't  Penury 
ask?" 

"  Don't  be  absurd.  A  man  can't  borrow  from  his 
•fiancee." 

"  Indeed !  Why  not  ?"  Drake  asked,  with  assumed 
innocence. 

"  Oh,  it  wouldn't  do.  Mrs.  Laird  will  soon  be  Mrs. 
Gower." 

" The  deuce!    Does  she  know  that?" 

"What?" 

"  I  didn't  know  that  long-talked  of  divorce  had  been 
granted,"  Drake  said,  with  a  well-feigned  show  of 
interest.  "  I  congratulate  you"  he  added.  He  did 
not  let  Gower  see  the  delight  he  was  having  in  making 
him  more  and  more  irritable. 

"  Bah !"  Gower  growled. 

"  Did  it  never  strike  you  that  she  has  a  sneaking 
regard  for  Lexham  ?"  Drake  asked  in  a  quiet,  inquisi- 
tive tone. 

"No,  certainly  not.  Don't  be  an  idiot."  Gower 
stopped  and  took  a  letter  from  his  pocket.  There  was 
an  expression  of  suspicion  on  his  face  as  he  scrutinised 
the  address.  "  Oh,  here's  a  letter  for  Lexham,"  he 
said,  throwing  it  down  on  the  writing-pad ;  "  will  you 
draw  his  attention  to  it  if  I  have  to  go  before  he 
turns  up  ?" 

"  Were  you  here  with  Mrs.  Laird  about  ten  o'clock 
last  night?"  Drake  asked. 

"  No ;  Mrs.  Laird  wasn't  here  last  night." 

"  I  think  she  was." 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  283 

"  Yesterday  afternoon  you  mean." 

"  No ;  I  mean  last  night.  I  saw  her  leave  the  house 
and  get  into  a  cab — yes,  it  was  just  about  ten." 

"It's  a  lie!" 

Drake  turned  over  on  the  lounge  and  looked  at 
Gower  to  see  the  effect  of  his  taunts.  His  face  showed 
only  innocent  surprise.  Gower  was  furious. 

"  Well,  perhaps  you  know  best.  But  surely  you 
don't  think  there  is  any  reason  why  you  should  be 
so  angry  about  it  ?"  Drake  said  in  an  easy  tone.  The 
brandy's  effect  and  the  pleasure  he  took  in  angering 
Gower  was  irresistible.  He  was  just  in  the  mood  to 
goad  Gower  to  any  madness. 

"  No ;  but  such  women  are  slippery  creatures.  You 
don't  know  the  agony  of  fear  I  have  to  endure.  All 
my  future  is  staked  on  her " 

"Wealth?" 

Grower  felt  inclined  to  throttle  Drake,  but  at  that 
moment  Alice  came  in  with  a  tray,  on  which  she  had 
a  cup  of  beef-tea  and  some  dry  toast. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Gower !"  Alice  exclaimed  in  surprise. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Miss  Oldcastle  ?"  he  asked,  try- 
ing to  recover  himself. 

"  I'm  well,  thank  you,"  she  replied.  She  turned  to 
Drake  and  placed  the  tray  on  a  small  table  near  the 
lounge.  "  Come,  Dick,  it  is  hot." 

"  I  don't  want  it,  Alice,  thank  you." 

"But  you  must  need  it.  You  haven't  eaten  since 
yesterday." 

"  Don't  insist,"  said  Gower,  going  to  the  table.  "  If 
He  is  suffering  from  lack  of  food,"  he  continued,  taking 
up  a  piece  of  toast  and  dipping  it  in  the  tea,  "I 


284  MADAME    BOHEMIA1 

shouldn't  urge  him.  It  is  a  good  thing  to  fast  now 
and  then  for  a  day.  When  I  was  with  Liszt  at  Wei- 
mar I  practised  very  well  on  an  empty  stom- This 

is  really  excellent  toast,  Miss  Oldcastle."  Drake 
coulci  have  laughed  at  the  half-amused,  half-indig- 
nant expression  on  Alice's  face  if  the  sound  of  a 
laugh  would  not  have  spoiled  the  scene.  Gower 
had  eaten  half  the  toast  when  Drake  said,  "Gower 
don't  you  think  Mrs.  Laird  would  like  a  bit  of 
toast?" 

"  Confound  it !  I  had  forgotten  her.  What  am  I 
to  do?" 

"  Take  her  home.  Keep  the  cab  and  drive  back 
here.  Lexham  may  return  before  you  come  back," 
said  Drake. 

"Good  idea.  Good-bye,  Miss  Oldcastle.  You 
never  come  to  see  us.  Get  Lexham  to  bring  you  round 
this  afternoon.  We  have  some  people  coming  to  tea. 
I  say,  Drake,  don't  forget  that  letter  on  Lexham's 
desk."  In  another  moment  he  was  gone.  Drake 
chuckled. 

"  What  does  Mr.  Gower  do  ?"  Alice  asked. 

"  Eat  other  people's  toast." 

"  But  has  he  no  profession  ?" 

"  A  trade.     I  believe  he  thinks  he  is  a  musician." 

"  But  music  isn't  a  trade." 

"  It  wasn't,  Alice." 

"  Is  literature  now  a  profession,  Dick  ?"  she  asked 
naively. 

"  Real  literature  is,"  he  replied. 

"  Was  your  famous  story  real  literature?" 

"  Some  people  were  kind  enough  to  say  so.     Of 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  285 

course,  '  Devril's  Dream'  was  an  exception.  I  wrote 
it  after  a  terrible  debauch,"  he  explained. 

"  Oh,  Dick,  how  can  you  say  such  things  ?  Were 
you  always  so  wicked?" 

"  Wicked,  Alice  ?  Well,  I  suppose  so.  What  an 
angel  you  are  to  listen  to  and  care  for  such  a  wreck," 
he  said,  with  true  feeling. 

"  I'm  not  an  angel.  But,  tell  me,  why  have  you  not 
written  anything  great  since  your  famous  story?" 

"  Mood,  Alice,  mood.  I  drank  steadily  for  one  week 
before  I  was  full  of  the  idea  of  '  Devril's  Dream.'  But 
now,  try  as  I  can,  the  mood  never  comes.  I  drink 
tea,  coffee,  cocoa,  and  all  the  extensively  advertised 
stimulants  which  have  aided  other  literary  men, 
but  they  have  no  effect  on  me."  He  was  heartily 
enjoying  his  own  joke  because  Alice  took  it  all  so 
seriously. 

"  Have  you  tried Oh,  I  forget  the  name  of 

the  stuff.  I  think  it  is  made  from  the  brains  of  oxen. 
The  advertisement  says  it  is  good  for  brain  fatigue 
and  overwork.  I  wonder  if  it  would  put  you  in  the 
proper  mood." 

"  I  don't  think  so,"  he  said,  with  a  strange  smile. 

"  Do  you  drink  brandy  for  that  reason, — to  put  you 
in  the  mood?"  she  asked. 

"  Yes,  oh,  yes,  Alice.  But  brandy  is  expensive,  and 
when  I  can't  get  enough  I  forget  everything  and  roam 
about  in  dreadful  places  until  the  police  put  me  away 
in  a  cell."  For  the  moment  he  seemed  to  forget  that 
Alice  was  near  him. 

"  Poor  Dick !"  she  murmured.  "  Why  do  you  leave 
the  only  friends  you  say  you  have?  Think  how  kind 
Mr.  Lexham  has  been  to  you." 


286  MADAME    BOHEMIA; 

"  Eh  ?  Oh,  yes,  I  know ;  but  this  is  all  different. 
You  see  I'm  prompted  to  do  things  which  I  know  are 
wrong,  but  I  can't  help  myself.  In  the  very  moment 
I'm  drinking  brandy  I'm  saying  to  myself,  '  This  is 
wrong,  Dick  Drake.'  I  was  brought  up  on  horrors, 
I  wrote  about  horrors,  and  now  there's  nothing  but 
horrors  for  me." 

"  Dick,  Dick,  you'll  kill  yourself  if  you  go  on  like 
this,"  she  said  in  a  tone  which  rebuked  him  for  his 
thoughtless  remarks. 

"  Then  I  shall  die  laughing  at  someone  else's  joke," 
he  said,  with  a  chuckle. 

"  I  shan't  talk  to  you.  You're  in  one  of  your 
naughty  moods.  And  you  can  be  so  good  when  you 
like.  Think  how  Mr.  Lexham  has  been  worrying 
about  you,"  she  said  in  a  tone  of  reprimand. 

"  Worrying  about  me  ?  I  hope  not,  Alice.  He  has 
quite  enough  to  worry  him  without  wasting  any 
thought  on  me." 

"  Why  did  you  run  away  from  us  ?" 

"  Well,  I  thought  I  was  in  the  way,  and  you  know 
Mrs.  Kembleton  has  no  reason  to  like  me.  She  knows 
all  about  it." 

"Dick,  all  about  what?" 

"  Oh,  nothing,  Alice.  Don't  take  any  notice  of  me. 
I  ramble." 

She  had  often  seen  him  in  such  a  mood.  Many  a 
time  he  would  hint  at  a  reason  why  Elinor  and  others 
should  dislike  him,  but  Alice  could  never  coax  him  to 
explain  clearly  his  meaning. 

"  Why  do  they  call  Mrs.  Kembleton  Madame  Bo- 
hemia?" she  asked,  after  a  moment's  reflection. 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  287 

"  Because  she  loves  art  and  flirts  with  morality,  I 
suppose." 

"I  don't  understand.  Sometimes  I  think  you  try 
to  hide  what  you  really  mean  from  me.  Dick,  is  there 
anything  wrong?" 

"Wrong?"  he  repeated,  in  much  surprise. 

"  Yes.  Tell  me,  Dick,  is  there  anything  I  shouldn't 
know  ?  Mr.  Blackston  and  my  grandfather  talk  about 
Mrs.  Kembleton  and  Mr.  Lexham  in  a  way  which 

makes  me  think  such  dreadful Oh,  Dick,  they 

don't  love  each  other,  do  they?"  Her  tone  startled 
Drake.  He  sat  up  and  looked  at  her.  There  was  a 
strange  light  in  his  eyes.  He  thought  he  had  surprised 
a  secret. 

"  Would  you  much  care  if  Lexham  loved  her?"  he 
asked. 

"  Care !  Oh,  Dick !"  Her  voice  was  tremulous. 
Her  lips  quivered.  Tears  flooded  her  eyes.  She  tried 
to  speak,  but  could  only  shake  her  head  in  a  hopeless 
way,  which  seemed  to  indicate  that  some  despair  had 
already  touched  her  tender  heart. 

"Oh,  Alice,"  he  laughed,  "you  silly  girl!  The 
idea !  Why,  Mrs.  Kembleton  has  been  almost  a  mother 
to  Lexham." 

"  What!  am  I  silly?  Only  that?  To  help  him  in 
his  work?  They  don't  love  each  other?"  she  cried  in 
staccato  tones,  as  her  smiles  broke  through  the  mist  of 
fast-coming  tears.  "  Oh,  Dick,  dear  Dick,  how  happy 
you  have  made  me!" 

"  You  don't  know  how  happy  you've  made  me, 
Alice,"  he  said,  with  a  tremor  in  his  voice.  "  But 
you  won't  love  Dick  Drake  any  the  less?" 


288  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

"  No,  no !  I  love  everybody — even  Mrs.  Kembleton 
— ever  so  much!  And  you,  why,  I've  loved  you  ever 
since  that  day  when  dear  old  grandfather  and  I  saw  you 
surrounded  by  a  crowd." 

"  Eh?     Drunk,  eh?"  he  said,  trying  to  put  her  off. 

"  No.  When  you  were  trying  to  remember  a 
name ' 

"  Now  that  silly  head  of  yours  is  possessed  of 
another  absurd  notion,"  he  said  nervously,  and  tried 
to  rise. 

"  Oh,  no,  it  isn't.  You  had  forgotten  some  name, 
for  grandfather  thought  you  were  trying  to  remember 
ours.  Why,  Dick,  when  you  heard  him  say  Oldcastle 
you  yelled  it  at  the  top  of  your  voice  and  flew  away 
as  if  fiends  were  after  you." 

"Fiends.  Yes,  ;they  liked  my  company.  They 
stuck  to  me  night  and  day,  but  at  last  I  contrived  to 
get  rid  of  the  fiends  and  found " 

"  Friends  ?"  Alice  interposed.  She  shook  a  finger 
at  him  and  laughed  at  his  seriousness.  The  effect  of 
the  brandy  was  beginning  to  show  signs  which  he  had 
much  difficulty  in  hiding  from  her. 

"  I'm  so  tired,"  said  Drake,  trying  to  rise  and  steady 
himself.  "  I  think  I  shall  have  a  rest  in  Lexham's 
room ;  I'm  too  lazy  to  go  to  my  own." 

"  Listen,"  said  Alice.     "I  think  he  is  coming." 

Drake  had  reached  the  sideboard,  and  while  she  ran 
to  the  window  to  look  out  and  see  if  it  were  Lexham 
whom  she  thought  she  heard  coming  up  the  steps, 
Drake  quickly  poured  some  more  brandy  in  a  glass 
and  drank  it.  In  replacing  the  glass  on  the  tray  it 
struck  the  decanter  and  broke  with  a  clash  which  at- 


MADAME   BOHEMIA  289 

tracted  Alice.      As  she  turned  from  the  window  to 
see  what  had  happened  Lexham  came  in. 

"  Dick,  how  could  you  ?"  she  cried,  seeing  the  stop- 
perless  decanter  and  the  broken  glass. 

"Hullo,  Dick!"  Lexham  exclaimed,  glad  to  see 
Drake.  Alice  glided  in  front  of  the  sideboard  to 
hide  the  tell-tale  decanter  and  broken  glass  from  Lex- 
ham. 

"  Hullo,  Lexham !"  Drake  muttered,  reaching  the 
desk  in  the  centre  of  the  room  without  further  mishap. 

"  How  tired  and  ill  you  look !"  Alice  could  not  help 
saying.  They  had  not  seen  each  other  since  Blackston 
on  the  evening  before  had  spoken  to  Lexham  about  her 
blushing  when  she  spoke  his  name. 

"Oh,  no,"  he  said,  "I'm  all  right,  little  sister." 
Drake  was  on  his  way  to  the  door  of  Lexham's  bed- 
room. "  Dick,  where  have  you  been  ?"  he  said,  going 
to  his  desk. 

"  Seeing  the  sights,"  he  stammered,  lurching  to- 
wards the  door,  the  handle  of  which  he  clutched  in 
time  to  save  him  from  sprawling. 

"  Well,  I  hope  you've  seen  enough  to  satisfy  you 
for  a  long  time.  Come,  I  forgive,"  said  Lexham,  going 
towards  Drake.  "  Shake  hands." 

"  I'm  so  sleepy,'  he  mumbled,  as  he  half-turned  to 
give  Lexham  the  hand  with  which  he  had  grasped  the 
handle.  The  muddled  action  was  enough  to  reveal  his 
condition.  He  stood  with  his  back  against  the  archi- 
trave of  the  door.  His  head  drooped  on  his  chest,  and 
his  knees  wobbled  in  and  out  in  a  powerless  way  and 
threatened  to  collapse  at  any  moment.  Lexham  started 
and  went  straight  to  him,  and  said, — 

19 


290  MADAME   BOHEMIA 

"  Look  at  me !"  Drake  tried  to  raise  his  head,  heavy 
from  the  effects  of  the  brandy.  "  Dick !"  Alice 
watched  the  scene  with  sorrowful  agitation. 

"  I'm  so  sleepy,"  was  all  he  could  say.  His  hand 
slipped  off  the  handle  and  he  lurched  forward  into  his 
friend's  arms.  Lexham  sighed  and  shook  his  head. 
Taking  Drake  up  in  his  firm  grasp,  he  almost  carried 
him  off  into  his  room,  where  he  laid  him  on  the  bed. 
When  he  returned  Alice  said,  "  I  am  to  blame."  There 
were  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"You,  Alice?"  said  Lexham,  Blackston's  words 
about  her  still  ringing  in  his  ears. 

"  Yes ;  he  drank  some  brandy  when  my  back  was 
turned.  I  was  at  the  window  looking  for  you,"  she 
said,  slightly  embarrassed. 

"  But  one  drink  couldn't  affect  him  to  that  extent," 
he  remarked. 

"  He  was  all  right  when  he  came  in.  I  went  up- 
stairs and  got  for  him  some  soup  and  dry  toast,  but 
he  wouldn't  take  them." 

Lexham  had  noticed  the  things  on  the  tray,  but  he 
could  see  no  toast. 

"Wouldn't  take  them?" 

"  Oh,"  Alice  ejaculated,  "  Mr.  Gower  ate  the  toast. 
He  came  to  see  you.  There  is  a  note  on  your  writing- 
pad."  Lexham  picked  it  up  and  opened  it. 

"From  Mrs.  Laird."  He  read  it  and  then  laid  it 
on  his  desk.  "  Has  Mrs.  Laird  been  here  this  morn- 
ing?" 

"  No."  Her  poor  little  heart  was  beating  fast 
when  he  looked  at  the  glasses  of  fresh  chrysanthe- 
mums. 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  291 

She  knew  he  loved  flowers,  but  he  had  never  once 
thanked  her  for  them. 

"  How  beautiful !  When  was  Mrs.  Kembleton 
here  ?"  he  asked,  holding  up  a  glass  filled  with  splendid 
blooms. 

"  Not  this  morning,"  Alice  said  quickly,  and  then 
blushed  and  looked  confused. 

"  Not  this  morning  ?  Then  who  could  have  sent  the 
flowers?"  he  said  half  to  himself,  in  a  tone  of  en- 
quiry. 

Something  like  a  sob  escaped  poor  Alice,  and  to  add 
to  her  embarrassment  Lexham  turned  and  saw  tears  in 
her  eyes.  He  was  mystified.  Could  his  inquiry  about 
Elinor  and  the  flowers  have  wounded  her.  He  would 
have  spoken,  but  at  that  moment  she  turned  and  opened 
the  door.  Her  grandfather  was  just  coming  in.  Alice 
tried  to  pass  him,  but  he  stopped  her. 

"  I  shall  go  out  for  a  little  while,  dear,"  he  said. 
She  looked  up.  "  What  is  the  matter  ?"  His  voice 
was  so  gentle. 

"  Nothing,  grandfather,"  she  said,  trying  to  smile. 

"  But  there  are  tears  in  your  eyes,  Alice." 

"  Are  there  ?  Dick  is  come  back  to  us,  and  he — 

he Mr.  Lexham  will  tell  you,  I  can't."  And  she 

ran  quickly  upstairs  to  get  out  of  sight  before  the 
storm  broke. 

"  What  a  tender-hearted  child  she  is !"  said  Lex- 
ham. 

"  Yes,  she  is,  Gilbert.  I'm  glad  Drake  is  back. 
Poor  fellow,  I  don't  know  what  we  are  to  do  for 
him,"  Oldcastle  said. 

"  I'm  sorry  Alice  saw  him,  Mr.  Oldcastle." 


292  MADAME    BOHEMIA' 

"  Why,  do  you  think  Drake  is  the  cause  of  her 
tears?"  he  asked. 

"  Yes ;  I  hope  there  is  no  other  reason,"  Lexham 
said. 

"  I'm  afraid  there  is,  Gilbert."  There  was  a  sweet 
smile  of  resignation  on  the  old  man's  face,  and  Lex- 
ham's  heart  was  full  of  misgivings  when  he  remem- 
bered Blackston's  words.  There  was  something  so 
gentle  in  Oldcastle's  tone  and  bearing  that  he  could 
not  help  but  feel  a  pang  of  regret  that  his  thought- 
lessness had  brought  about  a  change  in  their  estimation 
of  him.  He  knew  the  old  man  had  esteemed  him, 
and  for  Alice's  kindness  he  was  grateful.  "  Little 
sister"  he  had  often  called  her,  and  it  was  no  empty 
term. 

"  Many  times  during  the  past  three  months  I've  seen 
tears  in  her  eyes,  but  only  since  last  week  have  I  known 
the  cause.  I  have  been  to  blame.  We  have  lived  so 
much  alone,  Alice  and  I.  My  real  reason  for  letting 
these  rooms  was  that  I  might  find  someone  who  would 
be  perhaps  more  of  a  companion,  comrade,  than  I  have 
been  to  her.  But  what  an  old  fool  I  was!  So  par- 
ticular for  her  happiness,  and  yet  I  could  sit  and  see 
developing  under  my  eyes  the  very  contingency  I 
wished  her  to  avoid."  Lexham's  head  was  bowed,  and 
a  sense  of  shame  entered  his  heart.  He  was  humbled 
and  tortured  by  the  very  gentleness  of  Oldcastle's 
tone. 

"  I  can't  tell  you  how  sorry  I  am,  Mr.  Oldcastle. 
That  I  have  done  anything  to  wound  you  and  Alice 
pains  me  beyond  all  expression,"  he  said  in  a  voice 
almost  choked  with  emotion. 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  293 

"Don't  put  it  that  way.  It  is  unfortunate,  but  I 
can't  see  how  you  were  to  blame.  I  am  sure  if  I  was 
blind  to  it  you  could  not  have  noticed  it."  Lexham 
looked  curiously  at  him ;  he  did  not  catch  his  meaning. 

"  I  don't  quite  understand,"  he  said. 

"  No,  of  course  not.  She  has  been  very  brave.  How 
she  hid  it  all  from  me  for  so  long  I  can't  understand. 
But  it  has  existed  for  months,  Gilbert,  and  though  I 
thought  it  was  best  not  to  speak  of  it  to  you,  the  sight 
of  her  tears  just  now  was  more  than  I  could  bear. 
What  is  to  be  done  ?"  Oldcastle  asked. 

"Alice!"  Lexham  exclaimed.  "Alice!  Are  you 
referring  to ?" 

"  To  her  love  for  you,  Gilbert." 

"What!  Alice's  love  for ?"  Lexham  was  be- 
wildered, amazed. 

;<  You  have  said  nothing  to  her,  have  you,  Gilbert? 
Nothing  she  has  misinterpreted?  A  word,  perhaps, 
which  sometimes  implies  so  much?" 

"  No,  no !  Oh,  Mr.  Oldcastle,  this  is  dreadful !  If 
anyone  else  had  told  me  this  I  should  have  laughed, 
but  you — you  wouldn't  treat  it  in  a  light  manner," 
Lexham  cried.  He  was  startled  and  pained. 

"  Well,  it  can't  be  helped.  I'm  sorry  it  has  so  dis- 
tressed you,  but  I'm  glad  you  have  said  nothing  to 
her.  I  thought  you  were  generous  and  loyal.  For- 
give me  for  doubting  you,  though  in  a  way  there  has 
been  some  cause  to  doubt,"  said  Oldcastle. 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  know.     And  of  that  I'm  heartily  sorry. 
I  did  intend  to  tell  you  that  I  must  leave  here,"  Lex- 
ham  said. 
-  "Leave  here?"  he  repeated. 


294  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

"  Yes.  I  can't  explain,  Mr.  Oldcastle.  Blackston1 
has  spoken  to  me.  It  was  not  till  last  night  that  I 
was  made  fully  aware  of  my  position.  And  this  about 
Alice  makes  matters  worse.  He  told  me  she  couldn't 
speak  my  name  without  a  blush,  but  I  never  dreamed 
till  now  what  he  really  did  mean.  I  thought  you  and 
she  had  heard  some  gossip  about  Mrs.  Kembleton  and 
that  you  were  ashamed  of  me,"  Lexham  said,  in  quick 
tones  which  were  painful  to  both,  for  Lexham  felt  that 
some  explanation,  an  apology,  was  due  to  Oldcastle, 
and  the  old  man,  thinking  of  Alice,  was  distressed  to 
hear  his  young  friend  touch  upon  a  subject  which  had 
been  the  cause  of  many  an  unhappy  hour's  thought. 

"  No,  not  ashamed,  Gilbert.  No  one  has  better  rea- 
son than  I  have  to  know  why  judgment  in  such  cases 
should  be  deferred.  You  have  been  discreet,  and  that 
it  was  no  ordinary  affair  made  me  keep  silent,"  Old- 
castle said,  and  his  voice  was  low.  "  I  have  met  Mrs. 
Kembleton  only  three  times,  and  if  it  had  not  been 
for  Windham  I  should  have  been  quite  ignorant  of 
your  relationship.  But  of  that  I'm  sure  Alice  knows 
nothing.  How  could  she  know  ?  Somehow  you  have 
filled  a  great  void  in  my  life.  Your  youth  and  good- 
ness of  heart  won  me  from  the  first,  and  your  future 
has  been  to  me  a  matter  of  deep  concern." 

"  I  can't  tell  you  how  highly  I  value  your  esteem, 
and  I've  done  so  little  to  show  the  appreciation  I  have 
always  felt,"  Lexham  said. 

"  Don't  think  me  a  meddlesome  old  man,  and  forget 
for  a  while  what  I've  told  you  of  Alice.  Perhaps 
you  have  noticed  that  we  very  seldom  speak  of  her 
father,  but  since  I've  known  you  I  have  often  thought 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  295 

of  my  son,  my  only  child.  He  fell  under  the  cruel 
influence  of  a  woman  some  six  months  after  he  mar- 
ried. .The  woman  was  a  great  singer.  She  was  here 
with  an  opera  company,  and  my  son,  who  was  a  fair 
musician,  attracted  by  the  music  and  the  glamour 
about  her,  fell  in  love  with  her  and  forgot  his  young 
wife  and  me.  He  followed  the  woman  to  Europe, 
spent  large  sums  of  money  on  her,  till  at  last  I  had 
had  to  give  up  all  hope  of  reclaiming  him  and  stop 
letting  him  have  the  money  which  must  have  been  their 
binding  link.  Then  she  tried  to  get  rid  of  him,  and 
he  in  a  fit  of  despair  committed  suicide." 

"Alice's  father?"  Lexham  asked,  shocked  at  the 
old  man's  story. 

"  Yes,  her  father,  Gilbert,"  Oldcastle  murmured 
very  sadly. 

"How  terrible!" 

"  That  happened  before  Alice  was  born.  Her  mother 
died  from  grief  when  the  child  was  only  three  weeks 
old.  I  thought  then  that  there  was  nothing  more  to 
live  for,  but  as  Alice  thrived  and  passed  happily  from 
one  stage  of  childhood  to  another  my  heart  lost  some 

of  its  sadness,  and  now "  Oldcastle  was  deeply 

affected,  and  for  a  minute  he  could  not  continue.  Sud- 
denly he  clutched  at  his  heart  and  said  in  a  hoarse 
voice  full  of  emotion,  "  Gilbert,  I  have  lived  in  terror 
of  a  sudden  taking  off.  I  try  to  be  careful  because  I'm 
fearful  of  her  future,  yet  sometimes  the  old  bitterness 
and  hate  for  that  cursed  woman  fills  me  with  awful 
rage.  Old  man  as  I  am,  if  I  were  to  come  upon  her 
I  feel  that  only  God  alone  could  save  me  from  strang- 
ling her." 


296  MADAME    BOHEMIA1 

Lexham  was  appalled  at  the  old  man's  passion.  To 
see  Oldcastle  shaken  with  rage  shocked  him.  He  has- 
tened to  his  side  and  helped  him  to  a  chair,  for  the 
outburst  left  Oldcastle  weak  and  unstrung. 

"  Gilbert,"  he  said,  after  a  few  moments  had  passed, 
"  I  had  hoped  that  you  and  Alice  would  care  for  each 
other,  but  all  my  plans  and  fondest  hopes  seem  des- 
tined to  defeat.  But  remember  her,  won't  you  ?  Think 
of  the  father  and  be  generous  to  the  child.  She  is 
not  much  more.  I  know  you  will  be  kind.  I  am  her 
only  relation,  and  when  I  am  gone " 

"  She  shall  always  be  my  little  sister  no  matter  what 
may  happen,"  said  Lexham.  "  But  don't  be  alarmed ; 
Mrs.  Kembleton,  I'm  sure,  thinks  only  of  my  happiness. 
I  wouldn't  have  you  think  wrongly  of  her.  She  has 
done  so  much  for  me.  I  have  to  thank  her  for  every- 
thing." Oldcastle  looked  up,  smiled,  and  shook  his 
head.  "  Yes,  I  owe  her  so  much,"  Lexham  added. 

"  Perhaps ;  but  you  don't  owe  her  your  future.  She 
must  be  many  years  older  than  you,"  the  old  man  re- 
marked. 

"  That  is  why  she  won't  marry  me,"  Lexham  said, 
with  some  regret. 

"  Marry  you  ?"  Oldcastle  exclaimed,  quite  sur- 
prised. 

"  Yes ;  I've  asked  her  to  many,  many  times,  but 
she  won't.  Still,  that  is  no  reason  why  I  should  part 
from  her.  You  know  of  much  she  has  done  for  me. 
Nursed  me  through  that  long  illness,  paid  for  every- 
thing; I  had  hardly  a  dollar  in  the  world.  She  en- 
couraged me  to  write,  and  found  theatres  for  my  plays 
and  publishers  for  my  books." 


MADAME   BOHEMIA!  297 

"  But,  Gilbert,  are  you  sure  you  really  love  her  ?" 

Lexham  smiled  and  said,  "  Sure?  There  is  no 
doubt  about  that." 

"Are  you  sure  that  you  are  not  mistaking  a  deep 
sense  of  gratitude  for  love?" 

Lexham  was  about  to  reply  when  he  checked  him- 
self, and  was  for  a  moment  silent.  A  peculiar  ex- 
pression, something  like  doubt,  crossed  his  face,  but  he 
shook  away  the  thought  which  came  only  to  go,  and 
he  smiled  rather  sadly  as  he  said,  "  Yes,  I'm  sure." 

"  Gilbert,  be  careful.  I'm  not  thinking  of  Alice. 
There  are  many  things  in  this  life  which  no  law,  no 
condition,  social  or  otherwise,  can  make  equal,  and 
this  case  I  feel  is  one  of  them.  In  ten  years'  time  she 
will  have  lost  all  charm,  and  you,  why,  you  will  be  a 
young  man  then.  Oh,  it  isn't  just,  it  is  not  right !" 

"  But  it  must  be,  and  all  I  hear  to  her  discredit 
has  simply  the  effect  of  strengthening  the  bond,"  Lex- 
ham  said,  with  a  little  impatience. 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  so ;  but  I  feel  I  should  be  a  sorry 
friend  of  yours  if  I  were  to  keep  silent  when  the  mem- 
ory of  my  own  son's  awful  experience  and  sad  end 
prompts  me  to  warn  you.  However,  I  know  that  your 
own  good  judgment  will  be  the  means  of  saving  you." 

"  Well,  mistakes  are  easily  made,  but  there  is  at 
present  only  one  course  open  to  me.  What  you  have 
said  has,  I  know,  been  for  my  interest.  Of  her  I  can 
say  very  little.  It  is  what  I  feel  that  counts  so  much. 
We  are  apt,  I  think,  to  leap  over  facts  to  conclusions 
which  are  erroneous.  You  judge  Mrs.  Kembleton 
because  your  son  threw  away  his  life  for  a  worthless 
woman,  a  coquette,  perhaps  a  wretch  more  unfortunate 


298  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

still.  You  know  not  much  more  about  Mrs.  Kemble- 
ton  than  I  have  told  you.  How  do  you  know  that  I 
am  not  wholly  to  blame  ?  And  are  you  quite  sure  your 
son  was  blameless?" 

"  Blameless !"  Oldcastle  cried. 

"  Forgive  me  for  wounding  you,"  Lexham  said. 

"  You  do  not  wound  me.  No,  no,  he  was  not  blame- 
less. Oh,  no;  but  she  not  only  took  him  from  his 
wife,  she  nearly  ruined  me  through  him,  and  was  the 
cause  of  his  wife's  death." 

"  Did  she  know  he  had  a  wife?"  Lexham  asked. 

Oldcastle  looked  at  his  young  friend  in  surprise, 
and  said,  "  I  don't  know."  The  question  seemed  to 
irritate  the  old  man. 

"  Who  told  you  the  story  of  all  that  led  up  to  his 
suicide  ?" 

"  The  newspapers  and  a  long  letter  which  he  wrote 
a  few  days  before  he  put  an  end  to  his  life." 

"Did  he  blame  her?" 

"  No,  of  course  not.  He  said  little  or  nothing  about 
her,  and  if  it  had  not  been  for  two  men  who  knew  me 
well  and  him  by  sight  I  should  never  have  known  the 
truth  of  the  matter." 

"  Some  time  ago  you  told  me  that  you  had  no  faith 
in  circumstantial  evidence,"  Lexham  said. 

"  Ah,  but  this  is  quite  a  different  matter." 

"  You  think  so,  but  did  you  know  the  woman  ?" 

"  Never  saw  her  in  my  life." 

"  You  have  never  seen  her,  Mr.  Oldcastle  ?" 

"  Never." 

"  Then  all  you  know  of  your  son's  sad  story  is  mere 
hearsay?"  Lexham  asked  in  a  tone  of  incredulity. 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  299 

"  Yes,  Gilbert,  it  seems  extraordinary  to  you,  but 
it  has  ever  been  as  clear  to  me  as  if  every  word  had 
been  vouched  for  and  sworn  to.  Think  as  you  wish, 
but  I  shall  never  enquire  into  or  interfere  with  your  af- 
fairs again.  I  only  hope  and  shall  pray  that  you  will 
never  meet  my  son's  fate,"  said  Oldcastle.  He  had 
arisen  and  began  to  walk  steadily  to  the  door.  Lex- 
ham  went  forward  to  assist  him,  and  said, — 

"  Don't  misunderstand  me,  Mr.  Oldcastle.  I  know 
I  don't  deserve  all  your  kind  thought  of  me,  but 
I  wouldn't  have  a  soul  think  anything  wrong  of 
her." 

Oldcastle  grasped  Lexham's  hand  and  shook  it.  The 
old  man  tried  to  speak,  but  his  emotion  choked  the 
words  which  were  rising  to  his  tongue.  He  could 
only  shake  his  head  in  a  deprecatory  manner  and  pass 
out. 

Gower  had  driven  Mrs.  Laird  back  to  her  hotel, 
but  she  had  guessed  that  he  had  no  money  to  pay  for 
the  cab,  so  she  paid  the  fare  while  he  was  waiting  for 
Lexham.  Gower  got  out  of  the  vehicle  to  take  her 
to  the  lift  and  the  cabman  drove  away.  Many  things 
Drake  had  said  rankled  in  his  mind,  so  back  to  Lex- 
ham's  he  went  to  have  it  out  with  Drake.  He  had 
not  dared  to  question  Gertrude  about  her  visit  to  Lex- 
ham  of  the  night  before.  There  arose  a  suspicion 
which  he  dreaded,  but  he  had  not  the  mental  courage 
to  dismiss  it  from  his  mind.  Gower  reached  Lexham's 
just  as  the  latter  was  about  to  write  two  notes,  one 
to  Elinor  and  the  other  to  Gertrude. 

"Hullo,  Lexham!"  he  cried,  "  where's  Drake?  I 
want  to  see  him." 


300  MADAME    BOHEMIA1 

"  You  can't  see  him,"  Lexham  said ;  "  he  is  not 
well." 

"  I  must  see  him,"  Gower  demanded.  His  tone 
annoyed  Lexham. 

"  I  say  you  can't." 

"  But  you  don't  know  what  he  said.  He  insinuated 
—a " 

"What?" 

"  That  Mrs.  Laird  was  here  last  night — late  last 
night — to  see  you." 

Lexham  arose,  looked  at  Gower  as  if  he  were  about 
to  say  something  forcible,  but  he  checked  himself, 
shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  turned  away. 

"Was  she  here?"  Gower  asked  in  a  maddening 
tone. 

"  What  if  she  were  here?  She  can  please  herself, 
can't  she?"  Lexham  could  have  struck  him  for  daring 
to  suspect  the  woman  who  was  about  to  make  so  great 
a  sacrifice  and  do  so  much  for  his  future. 

"  But  Drake  insinuated "  he  began  to  whine, 

but  stopped  short.  He  saw  a  dangerous  gleam  in 
Lexham' s  eye. 

"  Drake  was  not  here  last  night,  and  I  didn't  see 
Mrs.  Laird  after  she  dined  with  you  at  Martin's." 

Gower  accepted  the  explanation,  but  his  suspicions 
were  not  allayed.  He  knew  he  dare  not  let  Lexham 
know  he  disbelieved  him. 

"  Did  you  get  a  note  from  her  which  I  left  on  your 
desk?"  he  asked,  as  he  walked  to  the  place  where 
Lexham  had  been  writing.  The  letter  lay  under  his 
eyes.  He  recognised  the  handwriting,  and  before  he 
really  knew  what  he  was  doing  he  had  picked  it  up 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  301 

and  began  to  read  it.  Lexham  turned  from  the  fire- 
place just  as  Gower  raised  the  letter.  In  a  moment 
he  had  rushed  forward  and  plucked  it  out  of  Gower's 
hand.  "How  dare  you?  What  do  you  mean  by 
reading  a  letter  addressed  to  me?"  Leham  cried. 

"  I  saw  my  name  on  it.  What  is  it  about?  Lex- 
ham,  do  you  want  to  drive  me  mad  ?" 

"  Drive  you  mad?" 

"  Yes ;  there  is  some  peculiar  business  going  on. 
I've  noticed  it  for  some  time  now " 

"  You  have  not.  You've  noticed  nothing.  Your 
abominally  suspicious  nature  leads  you  to  misconstrue 
a  perfectly  innocent  matter. 

"  Look  here,  Lexham,  I'll  not  have  that.  I  think 
I've  a  good  right  to  know  if  there's  anything  going 
on  which  may  endanger  my  prospects.  I  was  out 
shopping  with  Mrs.  Laird  this  morning  and  in  her 
bag  I  saw  a  letter  from  you.  When  I  called  in  here 
half  an  hour  ago  Drake  insinuated  a  good  deal,  and 

now "  he  looked  down  in  pointing  to  the  letter 

Lexham  had  taken  from  him  and  had  thrown  on  the 
desk,  and  his  eye  caught  the  letter  to  Mrs.  Laird  that 
Lexham  had  begun.  For  a  moment  Gower  stopped, 
and  in  that  moment  read  a  few  lines  without  touching 
the  letter.  "  Lexham,"  he  cried,  "  it's  not  fair.  Look 

here "  He  was  about  to  pick  up  the  unfinished 

note,  when  Lexham  intercepted  his  action  by  covering 
the  letter  with  the  palm  of  his  hand. 

"  Let  me  see  it,"  Gower  demanded.  Lexham  laughed 
at  him. 

"  I  saw  the  first  few  lines.  You  have  written,  '  I 
shall  be  alone  for  an  hour.  Come  at  once ' " 


302  MADAME   BOHEMIA 

"  Yes,  you  have  good  eyesight.  Now,  Gower,  if 
you  had  taken  any  other  tone  but  this  I  should  have 
been  anxious  to  conciliate,  but  now  you  can  think  just 
what  you  please." 

"  You  can't  deny "  Someone  knocked  on  the 

door. 

"  Deny  ?     Bah !     You're  losing  your  head." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  there  is  nothing  between 
you  and  Mrs.  Laird?"  The  person  waiting  to  be 
admitted  opened  the  door  and  closed  it. 

"  Cyril,  I'm  busy.     I  think  you  had  better  go." 

Again  the  knock.  This  time  Lexham  heard  it  and 
went  to  see  who  was  there.  Mrs.  Laird  stood  there. 
She  walked  into  the  room  before  Gower  turned  to  see 
who  the  caller  was. 

"  Did  you  hear  us  ?"  Lexham  asked,  in  a  whisper,  as 
she  passed  him. 

"  Yes,"  she  replied.     Gower  turned  and  started. 

"Well,  Cyril,  I  didn't  expect  to  meet  you  here," 
she  said.  "  You  told  me  you  were  going  home  to 
work." 

"  Yes ;  but  I  wanted  to  see  Lexham  for  a  moment," 
he  stammered. 

"Oh,  am  I  in  the  way?"  She  made  a  movement 
towards  the  door. 

"  No ;  I've  finished."  Lexham  went  to  him,  while 
Gertrude  turned  to  the  fire. 

"  If  you  don't  go  I  shall  let  Her  know  what  you 
wanted  to  see  me  about,"  Lexham  said  in  an  under- 
tone. 

Gower  was  obstinate  and  gave  Lexham  a  glance 
which  implied,  "  I  dare  you !" 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  303 

"  I  shall."  And  Lexham  started  to  move  away 
from  him. 

"  No,  no,  I'll  go !"  Gower's  hat  was  on  the  lounge, 
Lexham  picked  it  up  and  gave  it  to  him,  at  the  same 
time  he  made  a  gesture  towards  the  door.  Gower 
went  to  Mrs.  Laird  and  said, — 

"  Gertrude,  shall  I  see  you  later  this  afternoon  ?" 

"  Yes,  of  course,  auntie  and  I.  We  are  going  to 
have  early  dinner  with  Diva,  you  know."  She  smiled 
at  him  and  he  brightened. 

"  Till  then,"  he  said,  and  left  the  room. 

Neither  spoke  for  a  moment.  Lexham  listened  and 
heard  the  outer  door  shut  with  a  bang.  Then  he  went 
to  the  window  and  saw  Gower  walking  across  the 
square. 

"  I  should  have  been  here  on  time,  but  Cyril  came 
this  morning  just  as  I  was  starting  off  to  do  some 
shopping.  I  had  to  let  him  go  with  me,"  she  ex- 
plained. "  I'm  so  sorry  to  trouble  you  in  this  matter, 
but  there  is  no  one  else  who  can  help  me." 

"  It  is  no  trouble,  Mrs.  Laird.  Are  you  still  of 
the  same  mind?" 

"  Yes,  it  must  all  end.  I  have  here  a  cheque  for 
two  thousand  dollars,"  she  said,  opening  a  small  bag 
depending  from  her  girdle,  from  which  she  took  the 
cheque  and  handed  it  to  him.  In  watching  her  find 
the  cheque  he  caught  sight  of  his  letter,  the  one  which 
Gower  said  he  had  seen. 

"  Now,  how  can  the  matter  be  arranged  ?"  she  asked. 

"  I'm  sure  Cyril  will  know  this  money  is  a  gift  from 
you,"  Lexham  said,  "  for  he  has  of  late  asked  me  to 
lend  him  sums  of  money  which  I  could  not  let  him 


304  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

have.  Besides,  to  be  quite  frank  with  you,  I  think  he 
knows  I  have  no  bank  account.  But  if  your  object 
in  giving  him  the  money  is  to  pay  the  expense  of  a  trip 
to  Europe  where  he  is  to  dispose  of  his  opera " 

"  Yes,  it  is  the  only  reparation  I  can  make,"  she 
said.  "  I  think  I  told  you  in  my  letter  that  I  once 
promised  him  to  be  in  Paris  at  the  time  he  would  be 
there.  But  that  is  now  impossible." 

"  Do  you  really  believe  he  wants  to  take  his  opera 
to  Paris?" 

"  Oh,  yes.  He  has  no  chance  here  or  in  England. 
He  has  many  friends  in  Paris,  Berlin,  and  Vienna." 

"  Then  I  think  the  best  plan  would  be  for  you  to 
buy  him  a  first-class  passage  ticket  to  Paris,  give  him 
a  small  sum  of  money  for  the  voyage,  and  a  draft  on 
a  Paris  bank  for  the  balance,"  Lexham  said. 

"  Yes,  will  you  do  all  that  for  me?"  she  asked. 

"  After  you  have  left  New  York.  Will  you  permit 
me  to  tell  all  this  to  Elinor?" 

"  Yes.     Do  you  think  she  will  really  care  ?" 

"  I  don't  know.  You  see  they  have  never  been 
separated  for  any  great  length  of  time  since  she  adopted 
him  when  he  was  about  seven  years  old,  and  though 
he  has  of  late  treated  her  in  a  shameful  manner,  I 
don't  think  he  has  quite  killed  the  old  love,  the  great 
love  she  had  for  him  when  he  was  a  boy.  You  know 
her,  I  think.  She  is  as  loyal " 

"  Please  don't  speak  of  loyalty.  Think  of  me  and 
what  I  am  trying  to  do.  If  you  only  knew  what  it 
really  costs  for  me  to  give  up  all  the  dear  hopes. 
When  I  met  him  and  Elinor  at  my  aunt's  a  new  world 
was  revealed  to  me.  Perhaps  my  fancy  made  it  far 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  303 

brighter  than  it  is,  that  world  of  music  and  art.  My 
life  had  been  such  a  strictly  measured-out  affair. 
Monotony,  monotony,  day,  night,  dress,  delicacies,  re- 
spectability, hypocrisy.  Then  they  came  at  a  time 
when  I  was  heart-sick,  separated  from  a  drunken  hus- 
band and Oh,  I  know  Gertrude  Laird's  affairs 

are  generally  known!  Why  try  for  respectability's 
sake  to  deny  what  the  gossips  say?  The  gossips  have 
got  hold  of  the  truth.  What  does  it  matter?  The 
money  spoiled  it  all.  Mr.  Laird  married  me  for  that, 
and  now  I  can't  help  but  feel  that  it  is  the  money 
which  has  attracted  Cyril.  At  first  I  was  happy  enough 
to  forget  I  was  rich,  but  ever  since  the  thought  of  it 
came  back  to  me  I  have  seen  that  he  has  no  love  for 
me,  though  he  has  protested  that  all  the  best  work  he 
has  done  was  wholly  due  to  my  influence.  How  I 
wish  I  could  believe  him!" 

"  Do  you  know  he  is  deeply  in  debt?"  Lexham  asked, 
after  a  moment's  silence. 

"  No ;  but  let  me  have  the  amount.  How  much  do 
you  think  he  owes?" 

"  Well,  he  told  me  a  week  ago  that  seven  hundred 
dollars  wouldn't  satisfy  his  creditors,"  Lexham  said. 

"  Then  I'll  give  you  another  cheque  for  one  thou- 
sand. But  how  can  we  find  out  the  names  of  the 
creditors  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  shall  ask  him  for  a  list." 

"  You  feel  he  can't  be  trusted  to  pay  them,  not 
if  I  gave  you  the  amount  to  give  him  for  that  pur- 
pose?" 

"  Candidly  ?  Certainly  not.  I  have  no  desire  to 
make  his  case  any  worse  than  you  think  it  is,  since 

20 


306  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

you  are  determined  to  end  it  all.  But  I  have  trusted 
him  and  know!  No!  Let  me  get  the  list  and  pay. 
them.  I'll  send  you  all  the  receipts,"  Lexham  said. 

"  I  don't  think  he  deserves  to  have  so  good  a  friend 
as  you.  It  should  be  a  great  lesson  to  him.  Tell  him. 
Did  you  have  a  serious  quarrel  with  him  about  a  week 
ago?"  she  asked. 

"  No ;  I  think  Cyril  and  I  understand  each  other. 
Our  quarrels  are  never  serious.  Why  do  you  ask  ?" 

"  I  wondered  if  there  was  any  real  reason  for  sev- 
eral unkind  remarks  he  made  one  night  when  he  was 
dining  with  my  aunt  and  me.  Auntie  was  quite  dis- 
tressed. Thanks  so  much.  I'll  run  over  to  the  hotel 
and  write  out  the  other  cheque.  I  shan't  be  gone 
long." 

Elinor  knocked  on  the  door  and  came  in.  She  was 
surprised  to  see  Gertrude,  who  hastened  to  her  and 
gave  her  a  warm  greeting. 

"  Elinor,  you  don't  look  well,"  Gertrude  said. 
"What's  the  matter?" 

"A  little  tired,  that's  all.  I've  been  so  busy  of  late. 
Well,  Gilbert,  did  you  think  I  was  lost?" 

"  No,  dear,"  Lexham  said,  with  great  tenderness 
of  tone.  He  noticed  that  she  was  pale  and  that  her 
eyes  showed  signs  of  tears  not  long  dry.  Her  lips 
quivered  as  she  looked  at  him.  Gertrude  was  evi- 
dently much  concerned  about  her,  for  she  forgot  about 
the  errand  and  stood  anxiously  waiting  to  do  some 
service  for  Elinor. 

"  I  called  last  night  but  you  were  out,  so "  She 

looked  at  Gertrude  and  a  flash  of  anger  shone  in  her 
eyes.  Mrs.  Laird  did  not  see  it.  Lexham  did,  but 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  307 

he  could  think  of  no  reason  for  it.  He  was  surprised 
and  perplexed. 

"  You  leave  here  early  to-morrow,  so  Cyril  told 
me,"  Elinor  said ;  "  but  you  will  bring  Mrs.  Sefton 
to  dinner  this  evening,  won't  you?" 

"  Yes,  oh,  yes.  I  should  like  to  come  half  an  hour 
earlier.  I  want  to  have  a  chat  with  you.  May  I?" 
Gertrude  said. 

"  Yes,  do.  We  dine  early,"  said  Elinor,  and  she 
gave  her  hand  with  some  reluctance  to  Gertrude  and 
added,  "  Till  then." 

Mrs.  Laird  was  rather  surprised  at  the  unexpected 
way  in  which  Elinor  implied  that  she  wished  to  be 
left  alone  with  Lexham.  On  his  desk  lay  the  cheque 
for  two  thousand  dollars.  Elinor  glanced  at  it.  Mrs. 
Laird  had  gone  towards  the  door.  Lexham  opened  it 
and  shook  her  hand  as  she  left  the  room. 

"  Well,  you  truant,  where  have  you  been  since  yes- 
terday afternoon?"  he  said,  going  to  Elinor,  who 
was  standing  at  the  fireplace.  "  You  can't  make  the 
old  excuse,  for  you  know  I've  not  been  at  work." 

"  Gilbert,  I  should  not  be  here  now,  I  would  have 

run  away  yesterday,  if  you  were  not "  she  began, 

breaking  into  passionate  explanation. 

"  Elinor,  what  is  the  matter?" 

"  The  money  is  all  gone.  There  isn't  a  penny  left. 
It  is  no  use,  Gilbert,  we  must  give  it  up.  I'm  in  just 
the  same  straits  as  before." 

"  Well,  dear,  what  about  it?  We  must  make  some 
more  money.  It  was  yours  to  do  with  as  you  pleased," 
Lexham  said  in  a  conciliatory  tone. 

"  No,  it  was  not.     It  was  yours ;    you  earned  it 


3o8  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

.What  a  wretched  woman  I've  been!"  He  was  about 
to  reprove  her.  "  No,  no,  I  don't  deserve  a  word  of 
kindness  or  pity.  I  could  better  bear  it  if  you  were 
harsh  and  severe.  I  have  been  very  cruel  to  you. 
Instead  of  gratitude  I've  given  you " 

"  Elinor !"   he  cried  in  a  tone  of  rebuke. 

"  Yes,  I've  spoiled  your  career.  I  am  the  cause  of 
all  your  hours  of  despondency.  I  know  now  why 
you  have  no  inclination  to  work." 

"  No,  dear,  you  have  nothing  to  do  with  that.  How 
could  you  ?  I  am  a  miserable  coward.  The  reason 
I  do  not  work  is  plain  to  me.  I've  lost  the  little  con- 
fidence I  had." 

"  Must  everyone  I  have  faith  in  lose  confidence  in 
themselves?"  she  cried,  thinking  for  a  moment  of 
Gower.  "  No  wonder  your  last  book  was  a  failure. 
How  could  you  do  good  work  with  all  my  worries 
besetting  you  every  hour?  Then  the  play, — another 
failure.  Why?  Written  in  two  or  three  weeks  in 
frightful  haste  to  get  money  enough  for  me  to  pay 
the  arrears  of  rent.  And  for  lodgings  which  I  should 
never  have  let  you  persuade  me  to  take.  What  have 
I  done  since  your  first  success?  Heaped  expense  on 
you,  spent  your  money  without  care,  brought  you 
nothing  but  trouble  and  incessant  worry,  all  of 
which  I  should  have  spent  every  hour  to  shield  you 
from." 

"  You  are  wrong,  dear.  Perhaps  it  would  have  been 
better  for  me  if  I  could  have  worried  about  money. 
but  I  hate  it.  The  play  was  almost  finished  before 
I  heard  of  your  debts.  Why  can't  you  be  satisfied 
.with  the  pleasure  of  spending  the  money?  The  only 


MADAME   BOHEMIA  309 

pleasure  I  derive  in  earning  it  for  you  is  that  you  may 
do  what  you  wish  with  it." 

"  That  is  no  reason  why  I  should  forget  that  you 
have  to  live  on  it  too.  What  an  end  to  all  my  am- 
bition for  you !  When  I  think  of  all  you  have  done  in 
three  short  years, — from  that  night  when  Cyril  brought 
you  to  me "  He  took  her  in  his  arms  and  said, — 

"  Hush !  Remember  I  was  between  starvation  and 
suicide.  Did  you  hesitate  to  keep  me,  nurse  me 
through  the  long  months  of  illness,  and  pay  all  those 
expenses  when  you  had  hardly  sufficient  for  your  own 
wants?  Come,  let  us  say  no  more  about  it,  Elinor. 
It  is  I  who  am  in  debt  to  you.  A  debt  which  no 
amount  of  money  will  ever  repay."  She  looked  up  and 
smiled. 

"Ah,  you  always  say  that.  But  this  time  I  mean 
to  give  it  up.  Go  back  to  the  old  way  of  living.  I 
shall  get  some  work  to  do,"  she  said,  with  some  de- 
termination. 

"  Wait.  I  have  another  play  on  my  desk.  It  is 
half-done.  I'll  set  to  work  on  it  to-night " 

"And  make  another  failure,  just  to  get  advance  roy- 
alties to  pay  my  debts?  No!" 

"  But,  Elinor,  dear,  you  forget.  Both  of  us  need 
money,"  Lexham  said. 

"  I  know,"  she  said,  taking  her  bag  and  opening  it. 
"  Here  are  all  the  jewels.  All  the  costly  things  you 
bought  for  a  vain  woman.  How  I  loathe  them !  How 
I  hate  Gertrude  Laird  for  wearing  such  things!  If 
I  had  not  seen  her  neck  and  arms  covered  with  her 
jewels  I  should  never  have  thought  of  wearing  these. 
Gilbert,  do  you  remember  the  night  we  had  dinner 


310  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

at  my  rooms  and  you  took  us  all  to  the  opera?  Ger- 
trude Laird  was  resplendent  in  silk,  fine  lace,  and 
jewels.  I  saw  you  look  at  her  many  times.  I  thought 
you  admired  her  finery.  And  when  I  looked  in  the 
glass  and  saw  the  reflection  of  my  own  modest  gown, 
and  no  jewel  to  bewitch  your  eye,  I  knew  you 
thought " 

"  That  you  required  no  such  trinkets  and  finery,'* 
he  interposed. 

"  Gilbert !"  She  flung  her  arms  about  him  and 
laughed  through  her  tears.  In  that  moment  she 
seemed  to  lose  all  her  sadness  and  wan  expression  and 
regain  something  of  her  former  loveliness. 

"  That  is  the  first  compliment  you  have  ever  paid 
me,"  she  said,  still  laughing,  though  there  was  some 
hysteria  in  her  joy. 

"Is  it?"  he  asked,  glad  to  see  her  once  again  in 
the  old  mood.  "  And,"  he  added,  "  these  are  the  first 
smiles  I've  seen  on  Elinor's  dear  face  for  many 
months." 

"And  you  do  love  me,  Gilbert?"  she  asked,  look- 
ing up  in  his  face. 

"  Yes,  so  dearly,"  he  murmured.  "  You  said  just 
now,  dear,  that  you  wished  to  go  back  to  the  old  way 
of  living.  Would  you  like  to  leave  here  ?  The  stress 
and  hum  of  town  life  oppresses  me.  I  know  a  place 
up  the  Hudson  where  I  am  sure  I  could  work  with 
confidence  and  pleasure.  Should  we  go  there?" 

"  But  what  about  Cyril  ?  He  hates  the  country,  you 
know." 

"  Don't  you  think  it  might  be  better  for  Cyril  if  he 
were  left  for  a  little  while  to  himself?  Don't  think 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  311 

me  selfish.  Surely  you  have  done  all  in  your  power 
for  him.  I  can't  help  but  think,  Elinor,  that  he  will 
never  really  strive  to  do  anything  for  himself  so 
long  as  he  feels  and  knows  that  you  pay  for  his 
board  and  lodging.  I  don't  think  it  is  quite  just  to 
you." 

"  I've  never  thought  of  it  in  that  way.  I  have  begun 
to  look  on  him  as  a  hopeless  failure,"  she  said  very 
sadly. 

"  Oh,  no ;  I  think  Cyril  has  great  talent,  but  he  will 
be  quite  content  to  live  in  debt  and  idleness  so  long 
as  you  permit  him  to  do  so.  He  has  just  finished  an 
opera,  but  there  is  no  chance  of  a  production  here. 
Suppose  he  were  left  to  himself.  He  might  try  to 
find  some  one  to  produce  his  work,  if  not  here  perhaps 
abroad." 

"  Do  you  think  I  stand  in  his  way?"  Elinor  asked, 
and  she  laughed  ironically. 

"  Yes,  I  do,  Elinor.  You  may  not  be  an  obstacle 
in  his  path,  but  I'm  sure  you  are  the  impediment  which 
detains  him.  He  hasn't  got  the  moral  courage  to  go 
on  without  the  certainty  of  your  help.  Leave  him  to 
shift  for  himself  for  one  week  and  you'll  soon  see  a 
wonderful  change  in  Cyril.  At  present  he  doesn't 
know  he  is  living,"  said  Lexham  hotly. 

"  That  is  true,  Gilbert,"  she  said,  with  a  sigh ;  "  but 
do  you  imagine  he  could  possible  survive  what  you  have 
had  to  undergo?  Do  you  think  he  could  go  through 
years  of  almost  starvation  for  the  sake  of  study  as 
you  did  ?  No,  you  don't  know  him.  Why,  I've  heard 
him  say  he  couldn't  eat  if  he  hadn't  always  a  fresh 
serviette.  You  see  he  doesn't  want  much,  only  the 


312  MADAME    BOHEMIA1 

best  food,  cooked  just  so.  Not  a  lot  of  luxury,  but 
always  about  twice  as  much  as  we  can  afford.  Miss- 
ing one  meal  now  and  then  might  be  nothing,  but  one 
week  of  what  I  know  you  have  had  to  endure  would 
break  his  heart  or  kill  him.  Three  winters  ago,  be- 
fore he  met  you  at  Guarini's,  I  was  very  badly  off,  but 
I  got  enough  to  buy  food  for  him  till  one  day  I  hadn't 
a  bite,  and  the  next  morning  had  only  coffee  to  give 
him.  He  cried  like  a  child."  She  was  exasperated 
at  the  memory  of  it. 

"  Yes,  but  you  were  there  to  comfort  him,  soothe 
his  sorrow,  and  starve  yourself  to  make  sure  of  the 
next  meal  for  him,"  said  Lexham  indignantly.  Gower's 
utter  selfishness  was  the  only  matter  which  really  tried 
his  forbearance. 

"Oh,  that  is  it,  is  it?  I  see."  The  truth  of  it 
seemed  suddenly  to  dawn  on  Elinor.  She  nodded  her 
head  in  a  wise  way,  and  the  expression  of  her  face  was 
meditative  and  sorrowful. 

"  Yes,  dear,  that  is  the  real  cause  of  it  all.  You  see 
he  wouldn't  have  a  soul  to  care  a  button  whether  he 
cried  because  he  hungered  or  no  if  he  had  to  depend 
on  himself.  That  makes  all  the  difference.  You  have 
known  hunger.  It  would  do  him  good.  Not  that  I 
wish  him  any  misfortune.  But  I  think  a  man  some- 
how takes  thing  in  a  broader  way  and  views  life  with 
a  clearer  eye  after  he  has  known  the  pangs.  Napery 
and  delicacies  are  little  things  to  him,  and  luxury 
must  be  an  incubus." 

"  I'm  afraid  it  must  all  be  a  matter  of  experience, 
Gilbert,"  she  said,  "  and  you  have  benefited  by  all  your 
past.  I've  gone  through  life  without  benefit.  But 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  313 

How  I  should  love  to  go  into  the  country  with  you! 
You  do  the  work  and  let  me  carry  out  all  your  practical 
ideas.  Look  after  the  village  school  and " 

"  Will  you,  Elinor  ?  Will  you  do  it  ?"  he  asked  so 
earnestly. 

"  Yes,  Gilbert;  but  Cyril "  she  said  in  a  tone 

of  regret. 

"  I'll  see  that  he  is  well  looked  after  for  a  year  at 
least.  Time  enough  to  let  him  look  about  and  find 
work,"  he  said. 

"  But  how  can  you " 

"  Don't  ask  me  now,  dear.  Rely  on  me.  He  shall 
not  want." 

"  But,  Gilbert,  there  is  not  a  cent  in  the  bank,  and  I 
owe  that  wretched  landlady  of  mine  such  a  lot  of 
money.  And,  oh,  good  gracious!  Mrs.  Sefton  and 
Gertrude  are  coming  to  dinner  and  the  butcher  won't 
part  with  a  joint  till  I  pay  what  I  owe  him.  What's 
to  be  done?"  she  asked.  Lexham  was  in  a  quandary. 
"  The  jewels,"  she  cried,  emptying  them  out  on  to  his 
desk.  "  See,  let  us  get  rid  of  them  all.  I  shall  never 
want  to  see  them.  Last  night  I  tramped  the  streets 
for  hours  with  the  intention  of  pawning  them,  and 
though  I  remembered  that  I  promised  you  never  to  go 
into  a  pawnshop  again  I  was  tempted.  But  the  man 
looked  at  me  so  suspiciously  that  I  began  to  think  he 
took  me  for  a  thief.  When  I  got  out  into  the  street 
I  felt  like  one.  I  had  been  a  thief  to  you,  a  cruel 
thief." 

"  No,  no ;  let  me  have  them,"  he  said,  "  if  you  don't 
want  them." 

"  Sell  them,  Gilbert ;   I  shall  never  wear  them." 


3H  MADAME   BOHEMIA 

"  No,  there  must  be  some  other  way." 

"  There  is  not.  I  want  to  see  the  last  of  them.  If 
you  don't  get  rid  of  them  I  will,"  she  said,  throwing  the 
jewels  into  the  bag. 

"  But,  Elinor,  you  know  you  will  miss  them,"  he 
said  in  a  prophetical  tone. 

"  Never.  I  wanted  them  because  I  thought  you  ad- 
mired Gertrude  Laird's.  No,  no;  take  them  away. 
Sell  them,  Gilbert.  They  remind  me  of  my  foolishness 
and  want  of  thought.  Iniquitous  tokens  of  my  selfish- 
ness. I  hate  to  see  them  sparkle.  They're  uncanny," 
she  cried,  with  swift  vehemence. 

"  Very  well,  dear,"  he  said,  taking  the  bag  from  her. 

"You'll^// them?" 

"Yes,  I  promise.     How  much  are  they  worth?" 

"  Glover  told  me  the  last  time  I  pawned  some  of 
them  that  he  would  give  me  twenty-five  hundred  dol- 
lars for  the  lot.  But  he'll  give  more  than  that."  She 
was  quite  relieved,  glad  that  Lexham  was  about  to 
take  them  forever  out  of  her  sight. 

"  I  shan't  haggle  about  them,  Elinor.  I'll  take  what 
he  told  you  he  would  give,"  said  Lexham. 

"  He  may  not  be  able  to  give  you  the  full  amount 
to-day.  But  ask  for  a  few  hundreds.  Don't  forget 
the  dinner,  Gilbert.  Imagine  Mrs.  Sefton  turning  up 
and  no  dinner.  You  know  for  an  old  lady  she  has  a 
pretty  good  appetite,"  she  said  laughingly. 

She  was  standing  at  his  desk,  and  again  her  eyes 
fell  upon  the  cheque. 

"  What  is  this,  Gilbert  ?"  she  asked,  taking  up  the 
cheque  and  holding  it  out  to  him.  There  was  no  sus- 
picion in  her  tone. 


MADAME  .  BOHEMIA  3 1 5 

"  Oh,  that  belongs  to  Mrs.  Laird,"  he  said,  without 
hesitation. 

"  Did  she  forget  it?"   Elinor  asked. 

"  No ;  she  left  it  purposely,"  he  answered. 

"  Um !  Two  thousand  dollars ! .  Quite  a  big  sum, 
and  in  your  name,"  she  muttered.  A  flash  of  suspicion 
crossed  her  face,  but  she  shook  herself  and  laughed  at 
the  thought  of  it. 

"  I  can't  tell  you  what  it  is  for,  Elinor.  Not  yet," 
he  said. 

"  Don't,  dear,  if  it  is  a  secret.  I'll  wait.  There ! 
Did  you  think  I  was  suspicious?  No!  Only  just  as 
curious  as  the  rest  of  my  sex.  Forgive  me,  dear." 
She  replaced  the  cheque  and  laughed  as  if  she  would 
think  no  more  about  it. 

Someone  knocked  on  the  door  just  as  he  kissed 
her.  He  opened  it,  and  in  walked  Mrs.  Laird. 
She  had  returned  with  the  other  cheque.  There 
was  an  awkward  silence.  Lexham  broke  in  by 
saying,— 

"  Elinor,  I  shall  run  over  to  Broadway  and  see  that 
man." 

"  Oh,  are  you  going  out  ?"  Mrs.  Laird  asked. 
"Auntie  is  coming  to  see  you.  Cyril  is  bringing  her 
over."  She  caught  his  eye  and  laid  the  other  cheque 
on  his  desk. 

"I'll  wait,  Gilbert,"  Elinor  said;  "then  we  can  all 
go  together  to  my  place.  Perhaps  you  should  wait 
and  see  Mrs.  Sefton." 

"  Oh,  yes,  do.  Auntie  wants  to  ask  a  favour  of 
you,"  said  Gertrude. 

"What  time  do  you  dine?"   Lexham  asked,  think- 


316  MADAME    BOHEMIA' 

ing  about  the  butcher  and  the  errand  he  had  to  go 
upon. 

"  Six  o'clock,"  Elinor  said,  and  quite  innocently, 
"  Oh,  yes,  that  confounded  butcher." 

"  What !"   Gertrude  cried. 

"  Nothing.  I  want  to  pick  a  good  joint.  Cyril 
likes  the  best,  you  know." 

Lexham  could  hardly  restrain  a  desire  to  laugh. 

"  I  don't  know  what  would  happen,"  she  said,  "  if 
he  had  to  eat  the  chump  or  skirt-steak."  Elinor  was 
quite  serious. 

"  Oh,  Elinor,"  Gertrude  laughed,  "  the  idea !  Cyril 
eating  that  stuff.  Why,  I  had  never  heard  of  such 
meat  till  you  told  me  about  it." 

"  It's  not  so  bad  if  your  teeth  can  stand  the  press- 
ure." 

"  I've  found  it  very  good,"  said  Lexham. 

"  What  a  pretty  purse !"  Elinor  said,  admiring  a 
gold  chain  affair  Gertrude  held  in  her  hand. 

"  Yes,  isn't  it?  Oh,  by  the  bye,  did  you  see  a  tor- 
toise-shell hairpin  mounted  in  gold  about  your  rooms, 
Elinor?  I've  lost  one,"  Mrs.  Laird  said. 

"  No,  but  I'll  ask  the  maid,"  Elinor  said.  "  Where 
do  you  think  you  lost  it,  in  mine  or  Cyril's  room  ?" 

"  I  don't  know.     I  missed  it  this  morning." 

"  Oh,  you  haven't  been  in  my  room  for  nearly  two 
weeks." 

Gower  knocked  on  the  door  and  at  the  same  time 
pushed  it  open.  Mrs.  Sefton  came  with  him.  Elinor 
rose,  hastened  to  the  old  lady,  and  led  her  to  a  chair. 

"Ah,  I  never  get  a  chance  to  have  a  talk  for  a  few 
moments  alone  with  Mr.  Lexham.  You  young  women 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  317 

take  advantage  of  my  age.  But  I  can  well  remember 
the  day  when  you  wouldn't  have  had  a  look  in  with 
me.  They  say  I  was  an  incorrigible  flirt,"  Mrs.  Sefton 
confessed.  Elinor  and  Gertrude's  eyes  met. 

"  I  suppose  you  were,  auntie.  But  didn't  you  tell 
me  that  you  were  coming  over  to  ask  a  favour  of  Mr. 
Lexham?"  her  niece  remarked. 

"  Oh,  yes,  of  course  I  did.  Elinor,  take  Gertrude 
to  the  window  and  show  her  the  trees,  and  don't  let 
her  listen,"  Mrs.  Sefton  said,  laughing  at  her  pretence 
of  shyness.  Elinor  humoured  the  old  lady,  and  she 
and  Gertrude  went  to  the  window,  Gower  followed 
them. 

"  Mr.  Lexham,  I  want  you  to  give  me  one  of  your 
photographs,"  Mrs.  Sefton  said  in  an  undertone. 

"A  photograph?  I  haven't  got  such  a  thing,"  he 
said. 

"  What !  a  popular  novelist  without  a  photograph 
of  himself!  .You  surprise  me!"  she  cried. 

"  I  don't  think  I've  been  photographed  since  I  was  a 
lad,  Mrs.  Sefton." 

"  Oh,  dear  me !  I  am  disappointed.  I  thought  it 
would  be  so  nice  to  take  away  with  me,"  the  old  lady 
said.  "  Gertrude,  Mr.  Lexham  hasn't  got  a  photo- 
graph of  himself,"  she  cried. 

"  Indeed !  Never  mind,  auntie,  you  have  autograph 
copies  of  all  his  books." 

"  Lexham  doesn't  go  in  for  that  sort  of  thing," 
Gower  said.  "  He  should,  though.  The  camera  does 
wonders  nowadays." 

"  So  I've  heard,  Cyril,"  said  Lexham,  "  but  I  haven't 
the  same  faith  in  it  you  have ;  still,  I'll  have  one  taken 


318  MADAME   BOHEMIA 

and  send  it  on  to  you,  Mrs.  Sefton."     The  old  lady 
was  delighted,  and  looked  in  triumph  at  her  niece. 

"  Gilbert,  it  is  getting  late,"  said  Elinor.  "  Don't 
you  think  it  is  time  to  keep  your  appointment?" 

"  Yes ;  I  must  go,"  he  said. 

The  bag  that  contained  the  jewels  lay  on  his  desk, 
but  as  he  felt  that  they  all  knew  it  was  Elinor's  he  did 
not  like  to  take  it  away  while  their  eyes  were  on  him. 
It  was  an  awkward  moment.  He  tried  to  catch  Eli- 
nor's eye,  but  she  was  talking  earnestly  to  Mrs.  Sefton. 
Gower  was  standing  near  the  desk  chatting  to  Ger- 
trude. Any  movement  of  Lexham's  to  the  desk  would 
have  attracted  their  attention.  He  did  not  know  what 
to  do  till  at  length  Elinor  looked  towards  him,  sur- 
prised that  he  lingered.  He  caught  her  glance  and 
with  his  eyes  directed  hers  on  the  bag. 

"  Excuse  me  a  moment,"  she  said  to  Mrs.  Sefton, 
after  she  realised  Lexham's  predicament.  She  rose, 
went  to  the  desk  and  took  up  the  bag.  In  pass- 
ing Lexham  she  said  in  an  undertone,  "  I'll  leave 
this  in  there."  A  nod  of  her  head  indicated  his  bed- 
room. 

"  Is  the  manuscript  of  your  last  novel  in  the  book- 
case in  there?"  Elinor  asked  Lexham  in  a  tone 
loud  enough  for  the  others  to  hear.  It  was  a  hint 
to  him,  an  excuse  to  go  into  his  bedroom  with  the 
bag. 

"  I  don't  know  where  it  is,"  he  replied,  not  taking 
the  hint. 

"  It  may  be  there.  Do  let  me  look.  Mrs.  Sefton 
would  like  to  see  it,"  Elinor  said. 

Oh,  yes,  indeed,  I  should,"  the  old  lady  cried. 


MADAME     BOHEMIA  319 

Elinor  went  into  the  bedroom  but  did  not  close  the 
door  after  her. 

"  It  is  very  good  of  you,  Mrs.  Sefton,  to  take  so 
much  interest  in  my  work,"  said  Lexham. 

"  Oh,  I  think  your  last  book  far  and  away  the  best," 
she  said,  quite  enthusiastically. 

"  I'm  afraid  you  are  with  the  small  minority,"  he 
said. 

When  Elinor  got  into  the  bedroom  she  went  to  the 
bed,  and  on  it  she  emptied  the  contents  of  the  bag. 
Then  she  turned  and  saw  Drake  sitting  up  on  the 
lounge.  He  was  leering  at  her.  She  started  and 
shrank  from  him.  The  gleam  in  his  eyes  frightened 
her. 

"  Hullo !  my  lady  of  many  names,"  Drake  cried  in 
a  loud  voice,  "  my  beautiful  cantatrice,  Signora  Va- 
lenza!" 

Elinor  flew  from  the  room  and  closed  the  door. 
She  saw  the  others,  mute  with  astonishment,  looking 
at  her. 

Lexham  said,  "  Pardon  me,  I  had  forgotten  that 
Drake  was  in  there."  Then  he  turned  to  Mrs.  Sefton 
and  Mrs.  Laird  and  said,  "  Drake  is  a  friend  of  mine 
who  has  not  been  very  well."  He  left  the  room  and 
closed  the  door.  Mrs.  Sefton  was  alarmed  and  Gower 
could  hardly  suppress  his  anger. 

"  Elinor,  what  is  the  matter  ?"   Gertrude  cried. 

"  Oh,  he  startled  me,  that's  all.  It  is  so  long  since 
I  heard  that  name,  Cyril, — Signora  Valenza!  I 
thought  it  was  quite  forgotten." 

"  I  thought  so;  please  say  no  more  about  it,"  he  said 
angrily. 


320  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

"  Signora  Valenza,"  the  old  lady  murmured,  as  if 
she  were  trying  to  bring  clearly  to  mind  some  vague 
memory. 

"  Yes,  I  was  Signora  Valenza,  but  that  was  oh, 
so  long  ago,  and  yet  a  moment  past  it  seemed  as  if 
it  were  yesterday." 

"  Confound  that  Drake !"  Gower  cried.  "  I've  a 
good  mind  to " 

"  Don't  be  silly,"  Elinor  interposed.  He  was 
making  for  the  bedroom  door,  when  she  took  him  by 
the  arm  and  said,  "  Cyril,  let  him  be.  The  poor  fel- 
low didn't  mean  to  frighten  me." 

"  I'm  not  so  sure  about  that.  The  first  night  Lex- 
ham  met  him  in  Guarini's  place,  when  we  renewed  our 
acquaintanceship,  he  let  his  confounded  tongue  loose 
and  blabbed  out  all  about  you." 

"  What  if  he  did  ?  See,  you  are  frightening  Mrs. 
Sefton,"  Elinor  said.  "  This  Drake  was  my  secretary 
when  I  was  a  professional  singer." 

"  Now  I  remember !"  the  old  lady  exclaimed. 
"  Signora  Valenza,  of  course,  Elinor !  So  you  were 
she.  Oh,  let  me  kiss  you,  dear !  Oh,  that  wicked  Jane 
Dalston!  Gertrude,  just  think  of  the  sly  old  maid 
to  say  nothing  about  Elinor.  To  tell  us  not  a  word 
of  who  you  were.  Why,  I  went  once  with  Jane  to 
hear  you  sing '  Fidelio.'  Oh,  dear,  it  seems  so  strange ! 
What  a  funny  world  it  is!"  Mrs.  Sefton  was  left 
quite  exhausted  after  the  excitement  of  the  moment 
had  passed.  But  Gertrude  saw  on  Elinor's  face  ex- 
pressions that  were  signs  of  unhappy  memories  of  a 
time  long  past. 

"  It  is  a  strange  world.     Jane  Dalston  was  kind 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  321 

not  to  tell  you  of  the  days  when  I  was  a  singer.  For- 
get it,  dear  Mrs.  Sefton." 

"  Poor  Elinor,  I'm  so  sorry,"  said  the  dear  old  lady ; 
"  forgive  a  foolish  old  woman." 

Lexham  came  from  his  bedroom.  He  had  packed 
up  the  jewels  in  a  hand-bag  of  his  own. 

"  I  can't  get  a  word  out  of  Drake.  He  won't  ex- 
plain the  reason  of  his  outburst." 

"  Never  mind,  Gilbert,"  Elinor  said,  "  you  will  be 
late  for  your  appointment.  Do  go!" 

"  Why  did  he  call  you  Signora  Valenza?"  Lexham 
asked. 

"  I'll  tell  you  some  other  time,"  she  said ;  then  in 
an  undertone,  "  You'll  miss  Glover  if  you  don't  go  now. 
It  is  getting  late." 

"  Get  them  away,  for  Drake  may  come  out,"  he 
said. 

"  All  right.     You  go  on ;  don't  wait  for  us." 

"  Then  I  shall  see  you  all  later  on.  Excuse  me 
running  away.  I  have  an  important  engagement," 
Lexham  said  in  a  loud  voice  to  the  others. 

"Don't  forget  that  Mrs.  Sefton  and  Mrs.  Laird 
are  coming  round  for  a  cup  of  tea,"  Elinor  said  as 
Lexham  was  going  out. 

After  he  was  gone  with  the  jewels  Gertrude  went 
to  the  window  and  watched  him  walk  rapidly  in  the 
direction  of  Fifth  Avenue.  Gower  was  at  the  desk, 
still  worrying  about  Drake's  insinuations  and  the  fears 
which  his  own  suspicions  would  not  let  rest.  He 
began  to  let  his  eyes  and  fingers  steal  over  the  papers 
on  the  desk.  He  saw  the  letter  he  had  before  tried 
to  read.  Now,  without  lifting  it  up,  he  turned  it 

21 


322  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

over  and  without  bending  down  read  it  through.  After 
which  his  eyes  alighted  on  the  first  cheque,  that  one 
which  Elinor  saw.  He  started  and  shook  with  anger 
and  jealous  disappointment.  Then  he  picked  up  the 
note  in  which  was  the  second  cheque,  but  Lexham  had 
not  broken  open  the  envelope.  Though  he  felt  that 
there  was  something  mysterious  going  on  between 
Gertrude  and  Lexham,  something  which  he  thought 
was  detrimental  to  his  own  interests,  he  knew  he  dare 
not  question  Gertrude,  but  for  Lexham  his  hate  was 
growing  more  and  more  fierce. 

Elinor  had  been  chatting  with  Mrs.  Sefton  while 
Gertrude  was  at  the  window,  and  Gower  was  searching 
on  Lexham's  desk  for  proof  of  his  suspicion. 

"  Come,  Gertrude,  let  us  go,"  the  old  lady  said,  as 
she  rose  and  went  up  to  the  window. 

Gower  took  up  the  cheque  and  showed  it  to  Elinor, 
and  said  in  a  hoarse  undertone,  "  Look  at  this !  Do 
you  see  what  Lexham's  doing?" 

"  Cyril,  put  that  back  where  you  found  it,"  Elinor 
said  in  an  indignant  whisper.  "  Put  it  back !"  He 
turned  angrily  from  her  and  threw  the  cheque  down 
on  the  desk. 

At  that  moment  Alice  came  into  the  room.  She 
was  dressed  for  the  street.  She  looked  a  picture  of 
charming  simplicity. 

"  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,  I  didn't  know  you  were 
here,"  she  said,  about  to  withdraw.  Elinor  thought 
she  seemed  with  her  hat  on  to  be  several  years 
older. 

"Don't  go,"  Elinor  said.  "Come  in.  Mr.  Lex- 
ham  is  out." 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  323 

"  How  do  you  do,  Miss  Oldcastle?"  said  Gertrude 
admiringly. 

"  Well,  my  dear,  you  see  we  have  taken  possession 
of  Mr.  Lexham's  room,  but  don't  be  afraid,  we  shan't 
touch  anything,"  the  old  lady  said. 

"  Will  you  come  with  us,  Alice  ?  We're  going 
round  to  my  place  to  have  a  cup  of  tea,"  Elinor  said. 
"  You  have  never  been  to  see  me." 

"  I  don't  think  I  can,  Mrs.  Kembleton.  Grand- 
father is  out  and  I  thought  of  going  for  only  a  short 
walk." 

"  Oh,  yes,  do  come  with  us,"  Gertrude  said. 

"  Yes,  come  along,  child,"  Mrs.  Sefton  said  in  her 
sweet,  persuasive  way.  Then  turning  to  Elinor  the 
old  lady  said,  "  Dear  me,  how  she  reminds  me  of  my 
girlhood!" 

"  I'm  sure  you  must  have  been  quite  as  pretty," 
Elinor  remarked,  with  a  sigh.  "  Will  you  come  with 
us,  Alice,  just  for  an  hour  ?" 

"  Diva,  don't  try  to  persuade  Miss  Oldcastle  if  she 
doesn't  want  to  come,"  Gower  whined. 

"  Oh,  I  do  want  to  go,  Mr.  Gower,"  Alice  said.  "  I 
should  so  like  to  see  Mrs.  Kembleton's  rooms." 

'  Then  come  with  us.  Mr.  Lexham  will  drop 
in " 

"Will  he?"  Alice's  face  lighted  up  with  smiles 
which  quite  surprised  Elinor  and  Gertrude.  "  Oh, 
then  I  don't  think  grandfather  would  mind,"  she  said, 
quite  ingenuously. 

Alice's  last  remark  was  the  cause  of  further  surprise. 
Gertrude  looked  in  astonishment  at  her  aunt;  Gower 
glanced  uneasily  at  Alice  and  then  suspiciously  at 


324  MADAME   BOHEMIA 

Elinor.  He  thought  there  was  something  questionable 
in  behind  what  Alice  had  said. 

"  I  wonder  how  Mr.  Drake  is,"  she  said,  going  to 
the  bedroom  door. 

"  Oh,  I  shouldn't  go  in,  Alice,"  Elinor  said ;  "  he 
is  not  very  well." 

"  Don't  be  alarmed,"  she  said,  "  I  know.  He  has 
been  very  naughty.  If  he  is  awake,  I'll  ask  him  to 
tell  grandfather  where  I've  gone  to."  She  went  in  and 
closed  the  door. 

"  What  an  extraordinary  thing  for  Mr.  Oldcastle 
to  let  her  run  about  the  house  in  such  a  way!"  Mrs. 
Sefton  said. 

"  Oh,  Alice  is  quite  a  child,  though  she  is  the  only 
person  here  who  can  really  do  anything  with  Drake. 
Mr.  Lexham  says  that  she  is  Drake's  guardian  angel," 
said  Elinor  in  an  off-hand  way. 

"  Well,  I'm  sure  I  shouldn't  like  to  see  a  child  of 
mine  popping  in  and  out  of  men's  rooms  the  way  she 
does,"  said  the  dear  old  lady  in  a  tone  which  was  full 
of  reproach. 

"  Yes,  auntie,  I  dare  say,"  Gertrude  said ;  "  but  you 
see,  Alice  has  had  quite  a  different  rearing,  and  here 
the  men  must  surely  love  her  for  her  innocence  and 
unsophisticated  ways." 

"  How  do  you  know?"  Mrs.  Sefton  asked,  looking 
quizzically  at  her  niece. 

"  Well,  I've  heard  Mr.  Lexham  speak  of  her,  and, 
besides,  I  think  that  'Aline,'  the  young  wife  in  his 
last  book,  must  be  an  accurate  pen-portrait  of  Alice." 

"  What !"  Both  Elinor  and  Gower  exclaimed  in 
genuine  surprise. 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  325 

"  Oh,  that  is  merely  my  opinion,  but  I  thought  you 
all  had  noticed  that,"  Gertrude  said  rather  timidly 
when  she  saw  the  astonished  expressions  on  their  faces. 

"  Well,  now  that  is  very  strange,  but  since  you've 
mentioned  it  I  think  there  is  something  similar,"  Mrs. 
Sefton  said. 

"  Indeed !  Mr.  Lexham  has  never  said  anything 
to  me  about  it,"  Elinor  remarked.  "  Perhaps  a  mere 
coincidence,"  she  added. 

Alice  came  in  and  shut  the  door  of  the  bedroom. 

"  Now  I'm  ready,"  she  said,  going  to  Elinor.  "  He 
is  a  wicked  fellow.  I  don't  know  what  to  do  with 
him." 

"  Did  you  tell  him  where  you  are  going?"  Elinor 
asked. 

"  Yes,  oh,  yes,"  she  said  complacently.  Then  she 
said,  "  I  had  something  to  tell  you,  Mrs.  Kembleton. 
Dear  me,  what  was  it?" 

"  Nothing  of  importance  if  you  can't  readily  re- 
member it,"  Elinor  said,  laughing  at  the  serious  ex- 
pression on  Alice's  face. 

"  Oh,  now  I  know,"  she  said,  going  to  the  book- 
case and  opening  a  drawer  in  it.  "  Here  is  a  hair- 
pin of  yours  I  found  on  the  floor."  Elinor  took  it 
and  looked  at  it. 

"  It  is  not  mine,  Alice.  I  think  it  belongs  to  Mrs. 
Laird." 

Gower,  in  an  agony  of  jealous  rage,  watched  Ger- 
trude take  the  hairpin  from  Elinor  and  place  it  in  a 
coil  of  her  hair. 

"  I'm  so  glad  it  is  found.  I  must  have  dropped  it 
when  I  was  here  last  night,"  Gertrude  said,  without 


326  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

the  slightest  show  of  embarrassment.  And  that  she 
was  in  no  way  confused  or  abashed  increased  Gower's 
rancour.  He  began  to  imagine  that  he  loved  her, 
and  he  felt  he  could  take  her  by  the  throat  and  shake 
the  truth  out  of  her.  Elinor  watched  him  with  anx- 
ious eyes. 

"Are  you  ready?"  Mrs.  Sefton  asked,  not  aware 
of  what  was  going  on.  Gertrude,  of  course,  had  no 
reason  to  think  that  the  fact  of  losing  one  of  her  hair- 
pins in  Lexham's  room  was  any  cause  for  Gower  to 
to  be  jealous  or  even  think  ill  of  the  occurrence. 

"  Yes,  we're  ready,"  Elinor  said  in  a  sad  tone. 
"  Come,  let  us  go.  Cyril,  give  Mrs.  Sefton  your 
arm." 

Alice  went  to  the  sideboard  and  locked  up  the  brandy, 
so  that  it  would  be  out  of  Drake's  reach. 

"  Yes,  and  you  may  tell  me  the  story  of  your  li- 
bretto, so  that  I  shall  know  all  about  it  before  you 
play  the  music  to  us,"  the  old  lady  said,  as  she  took 
his  arm.  It  was  all  he  could  do  to  suppress  his  pas- 
sion. Gertrude  took  Alice  by  the  hand,  and  they  fol- 
lowed Gower  and  Mrs.  Sefton  out.  Elinor  cast  a  fur- 
tive glance  at  the  desk  and  hastened  from  the  room. 

Drake  had  evidently  been  standing,  perhaps  listen- 
ing at  the  bedroom  door,  for  the  very  moment  when 
the  other  door  closed  after  Elinor  he  peeped  into  the 
room.  On  tiptoe  he  went  to  the  door  which  led  to 
the  street,  opened  it,  and  looked  out.  Then  he  closed 
it  and  walked  jauntily  to  the  sideboard.  To  his  sur- 
prise and  disappointment  he  saw  that  the  liquor  had 
been  removed.  After  a  moment  or  two  he  shrugged 
his  shoulders  and  began  to  whistle.  He  roamed  aim- 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  327 

lessly  about  for  a  while,  then  threw  himself  down  in 
the  chair  at  the  desk.  The  first  thing  to  arrest  the 
attention  of  his  shifty  eyes  was  the  cheque.  He  picked 
it  up,  looked  at  the  names  and  figures  in  amazement; 
then  he  replaced  it  and  burst  into  a  peal  of  weird 
laughter. 

Oldcastle  came  in.  Drake  was  then  quiet.  His  el- 
bows resting  on  the  desk  and  his  head  on  his  hands, 
he  was  rapt  in  deep  thought. 

"  Well,  Gilbert,"  Oldcastle  said,  thinking  it  was  Lex- 
ham  sitting  at  the  desk. 

"  Not  in,"  Drake  said;  "  gone  out  with  a  bagful  of 
jewels." 

"What!  Bagful  of  jewels!  What  are  you  talk- 
ing about,  Dick?" 

"  Lexham.  I  wonder  what's  up.  I  think  she  is 
doing  him,"  Drake  muttered.  He  was  still  in  the  same 
position.  He  had  not  looked  at  Oldcastle. 

"Do  you  mean  Madame  Bohemia?"  the  old  man 
asked. 

"  Madame  Bohemia,"  he  sneered ;  then  he  said, 
"  Well,  I  suppose  one  name  is  as  good  as  another, 
and  she  has  plenty  of  them.  Choose  the  one  that  you 
think  best  fits  her."  He  laughed  in  a  soft,  weird  way. 
It  sounded  like  an  echo  of  the  former  peal. 

"  Dick,  we  all  have  good  reason  to  love  Lexham. 
Tell  me,  in  confidence,  is  Mrs.  Kembleton  worthy  of 
his  affection?" 

"  I  don't  know,  but  from  all  I  hear  outside,  from 
men  whose  word  goes  a  long  way  with  me,  I  can't 
help  but  think  she  is  not  acting  quite  fair.  Why,  she 
was  over  head  and  ears  in  debt  some  months  ago.  He 


328  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

paid  off  the  lot,  and  now  she  is  again  just  as  badly  off. 
That's  not  right." 

"  No,  I'm  sure  it's  not.  She  is  crushing  the  soul 
out  of  him,  Dick.  He  hasn't  done  a  stroke  of  work 
for  months.  It  makes  my  heart  ache  to  see  him  suffer 
and  waste  his  days  in  dejection.  Besides,  there's 
Alice;  she  will  break  her  heart  if  this  goes  on  much 
longer." 

"Alice,  yes "  Drake  sprang  up  and  clenched  his 

fists. 

"  She  loves  him,  Dick,"  Oldcastle  cried,  in  a  sad 
voice. 

"  I  know.  I  found  out  that  this  morning.  What's 
to  be  done?  She  mustn't  suffer." 

"  She  will,  Dick.  Lexham  didn't  know  about  that 
till  I  told  him  this  morning,"  the  old  man  said,  in  a 
voice  shaken  with  emotion. 

There  came  a  fiendish  gleam  into  Drake's  eyes.  He 
picked  at  his  thumbs  in  an  irritatingly  nervous  way, 
and  every  now  and  then  laughed  in  a  low,  weird  tone. 

"  I  wonder  if  she  has  changed.  She  used  to  be 
very  good  and  quiet  in  all  her  misfortune.  She  has 
had  plenty  of  cause  to  turn  cruel  and  go  wrong." 

"  How  do  you  know?"  Oldcastle  asked. 

"  How  do  I  know !  Why,  I  was  her  secretary  dur- 
ing the  years  she  was  a  singer." 

"A  singer !"  the  old  man  repeated  in  a  hoarse  whis- 
per. 

"  Yes ;  didn't  you  know  ?  I've  been  thinking  of  it 
all  afternoon.  You  must  remember  Signora  Valenza; 
she  sang " 

"  Valenza !      Valenza !      No,     no,     Dick.      You're 


MADAME    BOHEMIA!  329 

laughing  at  me.  Valenza!  Great  heaven!  Oh,  if 
it  should  be!  Is  she  Valenza?" 

"Yes,  yes!  What's  the  matter?  Do  you  know 
her?"  Drake  cried,  completely  astounded  by  Old- 
castle's  outburst. 

"  Know  her !  Where  does  she  live  ?  Dick,  where 
does  she  live?  Tell  me!  I'll  ask  Alice."  He  went 
to  the  door,  opened  it,  and  called,  "Alice !  Alice !" 

Drake  went  to  him  and  said, — 

"  She  is  not  in.  She  has  gone  to  Mrs.  Kembleton's 
to  tea." 

"Alice  gone  to  her  house!  To  Valenza's!  Dick, 
take  me  to  her." 

Drake  started  and  laughed  aloud,  then  stood  still 
as  if  he  were  spell-bound.  Suddenly  he  burst  out 
into  another  weird  laugh  and  cried,  "  Oldcastle !" 

"  Yes,  yes,"  the  old  man  said,  "  take  me  to  her !" 

"  Well,  we  were  not  invited  to  the  tea-party,"  Drake 
said  in  a  strange  voice  as  he  went  to  the  door;  then 
he  turned,  beckoned  to  Oldcastle,  and  grinning  like  a 
fiend,  he  cried  in  a  hoarse  whisper,  "  Come  on !  Fol- 
low me!" 


CHAPTER    XXI 

GOWER  during  the  walk  over  from  Lexham's  to  Eli- 
nor's had  partially  succeeded  in  getting  the  better  of 
his  temper.  He  knew  that  in  playing  the  music  of 
his  opera  to  Mrs.  Sefton  he  must  make  an  effect  which 
would  win  her  regard  more  than  ever  to  his  side. 
Gertrude,  of  course,  had  heard  the  music,  but  he  real- 
ised the  worth  of  Mrs.  Sefton's  enthusiasm,  especially 
where  her  niece  was  concerned,  and  for  this  he  con- 
trolled his  injured  feelings  and  nerved  himself  for  a 
great  effort.  Alice  was  delighted  when  she  heard  from 
Elinor  that  Mr.  Gower  was  going  to  let  her  hear  some 
of  his  music.  Gower  knew  she  was  impressionable, 
and  felt  sure  of  being  able  to  excite  her  enthusiasm. 

Gertrude  and  Elinor  were  in  the  latter's  room. 
They  had  listened  to  some  of  the  music  of  the  first 
act. 

"  He  has  improved,"  Elinor  said ;  "  but  I'm  afraid 
that  is  not  the  class  of  music  the  public  want.  You 
see,  good  music  must  first  come  from  some  other  coun- 
try before  it  can  command  any  serious  attention  in 
America  or  England." 

"  Then  why  shouldn't  Cyril  take  his  opera  abroad 
and  get  it  produced  in  Germany  or  France?"  Ger- 
trude asked. 

"  Because  the  music-loving  people  of  those  countries 
will  not  subscribe  a  sum  of  money  to  pay  his  expenses, 
I  suppose.     He  hasn't  the  grit  to  earn  and  save  enough 
for  the  purpose." 
330 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  331 

"  But  what  is  he  to  do  ?  Surely  such  a  work  mustn't 
go  begging." 

"  Other  works  have  done  so.  And  the  better  the 
quality  the  longer  they  remain  neglected,"  Elinor  said, 
and  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  It's  a  pity  his  talent  is  wasted,  that  someone  doesn't 
take  him  up,"  Gertrude  remarked. 

"  I'm  afraid  someone  would  soon  drop  him.  Cyril 
is  heavy.  He  was  too  good  too  soon.  When  I  adopted 
him  he  was  a  very  clever  child,  but  a  sudden  change 
from  almost  starvation  to  luxury  was  too  much  for 
his  peculiar  constitution.  It  spoiled  him  for  every- 
thing. Don't  look  shocked,  Gertrude.  You  should 
know  him  by  now  almost  as  well  as  I  do." 

"  Elinor,  I  would  give  a  great  deal  to  see  him  suc- 
ceed," Gertrude  said  very  earnestly. 

"  Yes,  I  daresay,  but  there's  not  much  chance  now." 

"Why  not?"  * 

"  Why  not  ?  Pooh !  You  know  why.  We  can't 
hide  what  we  know  and  think  from  each  other.  I 
have  long  ago  found  out  my  mistake,  you  are  begin- 
ning to  see  yours.  Cyril  was  lazy  enough  to  let  me 
make  a  fool  of  him,  and  he  is  not  man  enough  to  pre- 
vent you  from  doing  so." 

"  Elinor,  do  you  mean  to  say  that  my  influence  has 
not  been  for  good  ?" 

"  Good !  Good !  Think  for  a  moment.  What  good 
could  come  of  it?  He  was  just  learning  his  first  les- 
son in  contentment  when  he  met  you.  For  five  years 
we  had  been  reduced  to  just  enough  to  pay  for  a  de- 
cent roof  and  plain  food,  and  for  those  five  years  he, 
had  fretted  and  grumbled  day  after  day.  He  was 


332  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

forced  to  give  several  piano  lessons  at  one  dollar  an 
hour.  He  loathed  the  work,  but  he  had  to  do  it;  he 
couldn't  live  without  a  good  cigar  and  a  few  dollars 
to  spend.  Then  Jane  Dalston  got  your  aunt  to  en- 
gage me  to  give  a  reading,  for  at  that  time  I  was 
almost  penniless.  Yes,  penniless!  But  you, — 
why,  Cyril  hadn't  seen  you  for  twenty-four  hours 
before  he  made  up  his  mind  to  marry  you  for  your 
money." 

All  that  Elinor  had  suffered  from  that  day  when 
Gower  told  her  that  he  loved  Gertrude  now  broke  out 
in  a  bitter  torrent  of  passionate  resentment.  It  was  a 
great  shock  to  Gertrude's  pride  to  hear  Elinor  say  that 
her  influence  had  not  been  for  good.  But  though 
Gertrude  guessed  that  Elinor  had  suffered  much  from 
Gower's  indifference  and  ingratitude,  she  little  knew 
how  great  had  been  the  harm  done  for  which  she  was 
not  wholly  responsible.  Elinor  was  surprised  to  see 
Gertrude's  tears. 

"  I'm  sorry,  but  you  needn't  care.  You're  going 
away  and  will  leave  to  me  all  that  is  to  come.  Do 
you  think  he  will  ever  try  to  do  more  than  live  so 
long  as  your  money  haunts  his  mind.  The  fool,  I 
believe  he  would  go  on  grumbling  and  snarling  year 
after  year  in  the  same  old  way,  waiting  for  you  to  get 
your  divorce." 

"  He  shan't,  for  I  will  not  let  him,"  Gertrude  ex- 
claimed. "  When  I'm  gone  I'll  write  and  tell  him  that 
divorce  is  impossible,  and  that  I  never  mean  to  see  him 
again." 

"  Never  to  see  him  again !"  Elinor  repeated  in  a 
hard  voice. 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  333 

"  Never !  I  made  up  my  mind  a  week  ago  to  do 
that/'  Gertrude  said,  very  firmly.  "  Oh,  Elinor,  you 
don't  know  what  it  costs  me  to  do  this !  I  would  give 
all  I  possess  to  be  in  your  place." 

"  My  place !  You  don't  know  what  you're  saying, 
Gertrude.  You're  romantic.  At  least,  you  think  you 
are.  My  place!  If  you  have  so  soon  concluded  to 
run  away  from  him,  what  on  earth  would  you  do  if 
you  were  bound  to  stick  to  him?" 

"  Are  you  bound  to  do  that  ?"  Gertrude  asked. 

"  Bound !  Of  course,"  Elinor  cried.  "  Because  I 
made  a  mistake  in  the  beginning,  and  have  not  yet 
understood  him,  that  is  no  real  reason  why  I  should 
shirk  the  future  with  him.  I've  got  to  understand 
him.  I  took  him  from  his  parents,  and  because  of  my 
stupidity  he  is  unfitted  to  work  out  his  future  alone. 
The  love  he  gave  me  when  he  was  a  boy  was  almost 
enough  to  make  him  flesh  of  my  flesh.  That  I  only 
adopted  him  doesn't  lessen  my  responsibility.  Per- 
haps he'll  change  for  the  better,"  she  said,  but  not 
hopefully.  "  If  he  doesn't  after  a  bit  and  become  a 
fairly  decent  fellow,  I  shall  feel  that  my  whole  life 
has  been  a  hideous  failure.  For  I  feel  I  am  responsi- 
ble." 

"  It  is  just  the  awakening  of  that  sense  of  responsi- 
bility," Gertrude  said,  "  which  has  urged  me  to  leave 
Cyril.  I  never  realised  what  it  really  meant  to  be  the 
mother  of  children  who  are  old  enough  to  question  me. 
In  a  few  years  my  little  ones  will  need  all  my  love  and 
care.  It  was  a  lively  fancy  of  what  I  imagined  the 
world  of  music  and  art  was  that  first  attracted  me  to 
Cyril.  My  life  had  been  purposeless,  and  Mr.  Laird 


334  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

had  in  no  way  tried  to  brighten  it.  But  I  shall  never 
blame  him  even  in  thought.  I  see  myself  now  in  no 
bright  light." 

"And  yet  you  would  give  anything  to  be  in  my 
place,"  Elinor  said,  making  rather  a  sad  effort  to 
laugh.  "  I  thought  you  didn't  mean  what  you  said. 
I'm  glad  that  you  think  of  your  children.  After  I 
had  been  four  years  married  I  would  have  given  my 
world  for  a  child  of  my  own.  But  my  husband  left 
me  only  bitter  memories.  I  wonder  if  you  have  from 
your  husband  put  up  with  a  thousandth  part  of  the 
degradation  that  I  suffered  from  mine.  Well,  what's 
it  matter?  But  that  yearning  for  something  lovable. 
The  child-love.  God!  what  we  women  have  some- 
times to  pay  for  that!  And  then  to  know  and  feel 
that  as  the  years  increase  the  love  lessens,  till  when 
you  need  it  most  nothing  is  left  for  you, — someone 
else  has  found  it." 

"Ah,  you  see,  that  I  didn't  know.  Healthy  chil- 
dren and  plenty  of  money  made  me  forget.  Riches 
deprive  us  of  a  just  appreciation  of  our  blessings. 
I'm  a  novice  at  the  game  of  life.  But,  Elinor,  I've 
always  loved  you,  far  dearer  than  I  love  my  sister. 
I've  seemed  to  learn  so  much  from  you,  perhaps  I 
should  say  you  have  opened  my  eyes  to  so  much  I 
have  to  learn.  If  you  would  only  confide  in  me,  let 
me  help  you,  do  something " 

"  No.  Gertrude,  no ;  in  future  all  help  must  come 
from  myself,"  Elinor  said.  "  My  life  has  been  a  series 
of  beginnings.  This  one  I  hope  will  be  the  last.  What 
the  end  shall  be  time  will  tell.  Still,  I  mean  to  try  and 
make  something  of  it.  Something  besides  the  common 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  335 

end, — death.  Somehow  I  can't  help  but  think  that 
failure  has  been  an  evil  companion  of  my  own  choos- 
ing." 

Mrs.  Bettiny — formerly  Hogan — was  the  name  of 
Elinor's  landlady.  She  was  of  Irish  extraction  and 
about  forty  years  of  age.  A  hard,  brusque,  vulgar 
woman,  who  had  known  what  she  called  better  days. 
Her  husband — Mike  Hogan — had  been  a  politician  of 
the  worst  type,  and  at  one  time  made  much  money 
out  of  the  spoils  of  office.  He  had  bought  the  house 
in  which  his  wife  now  lived,  and  when  on  an  European 
trip  with  a  friend  who  was  a  furniture  dealer  the  poli- 
tician collected  a  fine  lot  of  household  effects.  Exam- 
ples of  old  Venetian  oak  furniture  lay  about  Elinor's 
room.  Of  these  articles  Mrs.  Bettiny  was  proud; 
they  were  monuments  of  a  glory  which  the  politician 
took  with  him  to  an  early  grave.  He  was  imprisoned 
for  appropriating  funds  of  the  city,  and  died  before 
he  had  served  half  his  term.  He  left  his  widow,  who 
then  changed  her  name,  a  large  house  beautifully  fur- 
nished, but  very  little  money  to  keep  up  such  an  estab- 
lishment, so  Mrs.  Bettiny  was  obliged  to  turn  the  place 
into  a  lodging-house.  She  knocked  on  the  door  of 
Elinor's  room  and  interrupted  the  scene  with  Ger- 
trude. 

"  Come  in,"  Elinor  called.  The  landlady  pushed 
open  the  door  and  pretended  to  look  surprised  on 
seeing  Mrs.  Laird  there. 

"  Well,  what  is  it,  Mrs.  Bettiny?" 

"  Oh,  I  didn't  think  you'd  be  engaged,  seein'  as  I 
heard  the  piano  goin'  in  Mr.  Gower's  room,"  she  said, 
with  a  sneer  on  her  lips. 


336"  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

"  Will  you  go  into  Cyril's  room,  please  ?"  Elinor 
said  to  Gertrude. 

"  Yes,  certainly."  When  she  had  left  the  room  Mrs. 
Bettiny  said, — 

"Look  here,  Mrs.  Kembleton,  the  butcher's  been 
here  three  times  to  know  if  you've  got  anythin'  for 
him." 

"  Not  yet.  But  I  shall  have  in  a  few  minutes," 
Elinor  said. 

"  Well,  if  you're  goin'  to  have  a  dinner-party  like 
this  evenin',  that  money  'ud  better  hurry  up." 

"Very  well,  Mrs.  Bettiny;  I'm  expecting  it  any 
moment  now.  Please  be  patient  for  a  little  while." 

"  Patient !  She  asks  me  to  be  patient.  Saints 
above  us,  as  if  any  poor  woman  'ud  been  kept  waiting 
like  me  for  all  this  time !"  the  landlady  cried  aloud  in 
an  injured  tone. 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know.  Please  don't  speak  so  loud," 
Elinor  said. 

"  Speak  so  loud !  an'  in  me  own  house,  too.  Do 
I  get  my  money  to-day,  do  I?  Five  hundred  and 
eighty-three  dollars.  Nearly  five  months'  rent  and 
extras.  It's  no  use  bein'  kind  to  you.  Not  a  bit. 
And  think  of  where  you're  livin'.  Look  at  it.  All 
his  beautiful  furnichure  round  you.  You've  got  no 
conschunce,  Mrs.  Kembleton,  you  haven't,  no.  But 
if  you  don't  get  my  money  by  to-night  you'll  not  have 
these  beautiful  surroundings  round  you  in  the  morn- 
ing, see  if  you  do." 

"  I'll  give  it  to  you  to-night,"  Elinor  said,  very 
quietly,  with  a  sigh  of  disgust. 

"  Yes,  you  said  that  on  your  word  an'  honor  faith- 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  337 

fully  a  week  ago,  you  did,"  Mrs.  Bettiny  cried.  "And 
you  don't  get  mad,  do  you?  It  ain't  ladylike,  is  it?" 
Elinor's  calm  attitude  irritated  the  landlady  beyond 
measure. 

Gower  flew  into  the  room.  He  was  in  a  towering 
rage.  The  landlady's  rasping  voice  could  be  heard 
distinctly  above  the  sound  of  the  piano. 

"  Shut  up !"  he  hissed  in  Mrs.  Bettiny's  face. 
"  Leave  the  room !" 

"Lave  the  room,  is  it?"  I'm  thinkin'  you'll  be 
doin'  that  soon  for  keeps,  me  fine  man,"  she  said,  and 
kept  on  muttering  and  "  ha-haing"  to  herself. 

"  Cyril,  leave  this  matter  to  me,"  Elinor  said  in  a 
firm  voice. 

"  Leave  it  to  you,  and  let  our  guests  be  driven  out  of 
the  house  by  that  croaking  thing!"  he  cried  in  a  hoarse 
whisper. 

"  It's  a  noice  thin',  it  is,  when  a  poor  lady  can't 
ask  for  the  money  that's  owin*  her.  And  the  secind 
time,  too,  it  is.  And  hundreds  of  it  at  that." 

"  Will  you  stop  her  confounded  row  ?"  Gower  cried. 

"  Git  me  money  an'  I'll  stop,  I  will,"  Mrs.  Bettiny 
said. 

"  Have  you  got  any  money  to  give  her?"  Ke  asked. 

"  Not  at  this  moment.  Cyril,  do  go  back  fo  your 
room.  Leave  me,  leave  me !"  Elinor  cried  in  a  voice 
of  supplication. 

"I  shan't.  How  can  I  go  back?  They've  heard 
every  word,"  he  cried,  flashing  a  dangerous  look  at 
the  landlady. 

"And  a  good  thin',  too,"  Mrs.  Bettiny  exclaimed, 
seizing  the  opportunity  to  raise  her  voice. 

22 


338  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

"  Oh,  I'm  sick  and  disgusted  with  this  infernal  life ! 
Can  you  raise  any  money  for  the  wretch  ?"  he  whined. 

"  I'm  waiting  now  for  some  money,"  Elinor  sighed, 
very  wearily. 

"  Then  for  heaven's  sake  kick  her  out  and  make  her 
wait  till  you  get  it,"  Gower  snarled,  and  rushed  out 
of  the  room. 

"  What !"   Mrs.  Bettiny  screamed. 

"  Please  don't  take  any  notice  of  what  Mr.  Gower 
said.  He  is  upset  by  the  slightest  noise,"  Elinor  said 
apologetically. 

"  I  don't.  But  I  should  like  to  be  round  here  when 
he'd  attempt  to  kick  me  out.  He's  a  fine  gintleman, 
h'e  is,  is  he?  But  I  pity  ye,  Mrs.  Kembleton,  from  me 
heart  I  do.  If  I'd  a  son  like  him  I'd  commit  suicide, 
I  would.  He's  worse  than  bein'  in  debt." 

Lexham  came  in  and  hastened  to  Elinor. 

"  Gilbert,  did  you  get  rid  of  them  ?"  she  asked  in 
a  quick  low  tone. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  and  looked  at  the  landlady. 

"  Please  wait  outside,  Mrs.  Bettiny ;  I  will  pay  you 
in  a  moment  or  two,"  Elinor  said  in  a  tone  which  hardly 
concealed  her  sense  of  relief. 

"  Ha,  ha !"  the  landlady  muttered  under  her  breath, 
and  left  the  room.  When  the  door  was  closed  Elinor 
threw  her  arms  about  Lexham's  neck  and  sobbed. 

"  Come,  come,  Elinor,  dear ;  it  is  all  right.  You 
will  have  nothing  more  to  worry  about,"  Lexham 
murmured  very  gently. 

"Oh,  it  has  been  unbearable!  Row!  row!  row! 
She  is  a  terrible  creature.  Have  you  six  hundred  dol- 
lars in  bills?" 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  339 

"  Yes,  dear.  Glover  gave  me  one  thousand  in  bills 
and  a  cheque  for  fifteen  hundred.  I  asked  him  to 
make  it  out  in  your  name,"  Lexham  said,  giving  her 
the  money. 

"  Wait,  Gilbert.     I'll  call  her  in  and  pay  her." 

Elinor  went  to  the  door,  opened  it:  Lexham  saw 
Mrs.  Bettiny  in  a  position  which  indicated  that  she 
must  have  had  her  ear  to  the  keyhole. 

"  Come  in,"  Elinor  said,  without  looking  into  the 
passage. 

"  Oh,  dear,  I'm  after  droppin'  something  I  think," 
the  landlady  said,  having  noticed  that  Lexham  had  seen 
her  when  the  door  was  opened  suddenly. 

"  Eavesdropping  you  mean,"  Lexham  said,  fixing 
her  with  a  glance. 

"  I  couldn't  help  bein'  there,  sir,  as  I  was  lookin* 
for  me  glasses." 

"  You  couldn't  help  being  there,  anyway,  Mrs. 
Hogan." 

"  Eh  ?  Mrs.  Hogan,  what  d'ye  mean  ?"  the  land- 
lady said. 

"  I  know  you,  Mick  Hogan's  wife."  The  woman 
was  at  first  amazed  on  hearing  the  name  she  had  not 
used  for  so  many  years.  When  she  recovered  her- 
self, she  screwed  up  the  muscles  of  her  face  into  an 
expression  of  vindictiveness.  Her  ratlike  eyes  seemed 
to  twitch  malignantly.  "  Pay  her,  Elinor,"  Lexham 
said,  quickly. 

"  Here  is  the  money,  Mrs.  Bettiny.  Bring  me  the 
change." 

"  And  a  receipt,"  Lexham  whispered  over  Elinor's 
shoulder. 


340  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

"  And  a  receipt,  please." 

The  woman  was  leaving  the  room  and  about  to  close 
the  door,  when  Lexham  went  after  her  and  pulled  the 
door  open.  He  stood  in  the  passage  and  watched  her 
go  downstairs.  Then  he  came  in  and  shut  the  door. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  Why  did  you  call  her  Mrs. 
Hogan?"  Elinor  asked  in  a  tone  of  alarm. 

"  When  I  got  to  the  pawnbroker's  office "  Lex- 
ham  began. 

"  Glover's  ?"   she  interposed. 

"  Yes.  He  told  me  that  your  landlady  had  been  there 
twice  of  late  making  inquiries  about  you.  Of  course 
he  refused  to  tell  her  anything,  but  he  remembered 
that  she  called  once  before,  shortly  after  you  first 
pawned  the  jewels." 

"  Good  gracious,  Gilbert !  Has  the  creature  been 
following  me?" 

"  I  suppose  so.  In  Glover's  office  I  met  Slatter,  the 
detective,  and  he  told  me  all  about  Mrs.  Bettiny. 
She  is  the  widow  of  Mike  Hogan,  once  a  notorious 
swindler  and  politician,  who  died  in  prison.  Slatter 
said  I  was  to  remember  him  to  her  if  she  made  any 
trouble." 

"  What  trouble  could  she  make  for  me — for  us  ?" 
Elinor  asked. 

"  She  has  made  it.  Now  I  know  how  Blackston  and 
Windham  know  all  about  our  affairs.  This  eaves- 
dropping, cackling  thief's  widow  has  spread  frightful 
reports  about  us.  For  all  we  know  every  lodger  in 
this  house  has  heard  her  version  of  your  history. 
And  not  only  that,  she  has  been  swindling  you  in  every 
possible  way.  After  I  left  Glover's  office  I  went  down 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  341 

to  Blackston's  and  saw  Windham.  You  know  he  has 
the  rooms  above  you.  When  I  told  him  the  rent  you 
have  been  paying  for  these  rooms  he  said  that  she  was 
charging  you  forty  dollars  a  month  more  than  she 
charged  the  former  occupant."  She  had  never  before 
seen  him  in  such  a  rage. 

"  Oh,  Gilbert,  Gilbert,  I've  brought  you  nothing  but 
misfortune !"  she  cried.  "  Misery,  misery,  nothing 
but  misery,  all  through  my  life !" 

"  No,  not  that,  Elinor.  We  have  been  thoughtless. 
I  should  have  known  what  these  lodging-house-keepers 
are.  The  majority  of  them  are  swindlers  and  viragos, 
and  their  houses  are  dens  of  every  kind  of  iniquity. 
I  suppose  we  are  labelled  with  the  lot." 

There  was  a  knock  on  the  door. 

"  Come  in,"  Elinor  called. 

Mrs.  Bettiny  came  in  and  gave  Elinor  the  receipt 
and  the  change. 

"  Here's  the  receipt  and  the  change  out  o'  the  bills, 
an'  can  I  do  anythin'  for  you  towards  gettin'  the  din- 
ner, Mrs.  Kembleton?"  the  landlady  said  in  a  ludi- 
crously respectful  tone. 

"  You  can't,  Mrs.  Hogan,"  Lexham  said,  disgusted 
with  the  woman's  servility  and  change  of  manner. 

"  Oh,  don't  remind  me  of  my  poor,  misfortunate 
husband!  He  was  a  good  man,  sir,  before  polytics 
timpted  him,"  she  whined.  "  I  hopes  you'll  forgit  me 
hard  words.  I  wus  a  bit  upsit,  I  was." 

"  Leave  the  room,  Mrs.  Hogan,"  Lexham  cried,  in- 
dignantly. 

:<  Yes,  sir,"  she  said,  casting  a  wicked  scowl  at  him  ; 
"  an'  if  Hogan  wasn't  dead  an'  in  his  grave  it  wouldn't 


342  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

be  there  you'd  stand  an'  cast  dirt  at  his  widow."  She 
went  quickly  out  and  shut  the  door. 

"  Elinor,  you  must  leave  this  place  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible," he  said. 

"  The  month  will  end  in  about  a  week,  but  I  must 
give  her  a  month's  notice,"  she  said. 

"  Another  month  in  this  virago's  den  ?  No,  I  couldn't 
stand  that.  She  has  filched  us  in  every  way.  I'll 
get  Slatter  to  come  here  and  see  Mrs.  Hogan.  She 
fears  a  detective  worse  than  purgatory.  You  must 
leave  at  once." 

"  Very  well,  dear ;  but  wait,  I  must  get  some  dinner 
for  these  people,"  Elinor  said.  "  I'll  get  Simon  to 
send  in  something  simple.  It  won't  take  me  a  minute 
to  run  round  the  corner." 

She  went  into  her  bedroom  to  put  on  her  hat  and 
cloak. 

As  Elinor  went  out  Alice  came  in  from  Gower's 
room. 

"  Oh !"  she  ejaculated  on  seeing  Lexham,  "  I  thought 
Mrs.  Kembleton  was  here." 

"  No ;  she  has  gone  out,  but  not  for  long,"  he  said. 

He  looked  at  her  as  she  stood  trembling  and  em- 
barrassed and  remembered  all  her  grandfather  had 
told  him  that  morning.  Alice  loved  him!  A  surge 
of  tenderness  and  pity  for  the  lovely  girl  went  through 
Him  and  left  a  smarting  pain,  something  like  the  wound 
a  knife  inflicts.  And  the  more  he  thought  of  his 
present  position  the  less  he  felt  he  deserved  her  love. 
It  was  a  painful  moment  for  him. 

"  Sit  down,  little  sister,"  he  said,  offering  her  a  chair 
near  the  fire. 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  343 

"  Mrs.  Laird  asked  me  to  find  Mrs.  Kembleton  and 
stay  with  her  in  here  for  a  while.  I  think  she  and 
Mrs.  Sefton  want  to  talk  to  Mr.  Gower  about  his 
opera.  How  noble  his  music  sounds  to  me !  Dick  said 
he  wasn't  much  of  a  composer." 

"  Dick  doesn't  know,  Alice.  I  think  he  confuses  the 
composer  with  the  man,"  Lexham  said,  very  sadly. 
"  Mr.  Gower  has  great  talent." 

"  How  strange !"  Alice  murmured  in  a  low  tone. 
"  Mr.  Blackston  told  grandfather  that  anyone  who 
knew  you  could  tell  a  book  of  yours ;  I  could." 

"  They  are  prejudiced,  Alice,  and  think  too  well  of 
me.  I'm  not  the  good  fellow  they  think  I  am." 

"  I  don't  believe  it.  I  know  you  even  better  than 
they  do." 

"Ah,  little  sister,  you  see  my  few  virtues  over  and 
over  again  and  think  I  have  many,  but  I  haven't," 
Lexham  said. 

"  You  forget  Dick.  You  don't  know  all  he  tells 
me  about  you.  But — but,  if  Mr.  Gower  should  go 
to  Europe  would  Mrs.  Kembleton  go  with  him?"  she 
asked  in  a  low,  earnest  tone. 

"  I  don't  know,  Alice.  But  why  do  you  ask  ?"  he 
said. 

"  Mrs.  Sefton  told  him  he  should  take  his  opera  to 
Europe,  and  he  said  that  that  was  just  what  he  wished 
to  do,"  she  replied. 

"  Well,  he  may  go,"  Lexham  said  in  a  thoughtful 
way. 

"  I  hope  so, — that  is,  if  she  were  to  go  with  him," 
she  said,  quite  ingenuously.  Lexham  started  and 
looked  earnestly  on  her. 


344  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

"Alice,  does  your  grandfather  know  you  are  here?" 

"  I  told  Dick  to  tell  him,"  she  said,  quite  calmly. 

"  Who  asked  you  to  come  ?"   he  inquired. 

"  She  did,— Mrs.  Kembleton,  all  of  them.     Why?" 

"  I  thought  you  didn't  like  her,  Alice,"  he  said 
slowly. 

"  Oh,  I  dislike  no  one,  but  I  did  so  want  to  see  her 
rooms.  Where  she  lived,  what  it  was  all  like.  It 
seemed  so  strange  to  know  her,  and  hear  so  much  about 
her,  and  not  see  even  the  place  in  which  she  lived. 
I've  always  wanted  to  love  her.  She  makes  me  think 
of  her.  Once  I  said  to  myself, '  Forget  her '  " 

She  stopped  for  a  moment,  then  shook  her  head  and 
smiled  sadly. 

"And  what,  Alice?  Could  you  forget  her?"  he 
asked. 

"  No.  She  came  to  me  in  my  dreams.  And  that 
was  so  strange.  In  my  dreams  she  looked  like  an 
angel  smiling  down  on  me." 

"An  angel?"  he  said  in  a  hushed  voice  of  deep 
emotion. 

"  Oh,  something  better  than  an  angel."  And  she 
smiled  happily. 

"  Yes,  and  better  than  an  angel  she  has  been  to  me, 
Alice!"  he  cried  in  a  tone  of  impassioned  exaltation. 

"  I  know,  I  know,"  she  said.  "  Dick  told  me  all 
she  had  done  for  you."  She  was  silent  for  a  while, 
then  she  asked,  "  Have  you  a  real  mother?" 

"  No,  Alice,  and  no  father." 

"  Nor  have  I,"  she  said,  with  a  sad  smile.  "  I 
thought  you  were  quite  alone,  just  as  I  am.  You 
know,  when  you  first  came  to  live  with  us,  I  used  to 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  345 

cry,  for  you  seemed  lonely,  so  lonely.  No  one  came 
to  see  you, — only  Mrs.  Kembleton,  but  not  often.  I 
think  young  people  whose  parents  are  dead  sometimes 
seem  like  forsaken  birds.  Yes,  she  was  so  good  to 
come  to  you.  I  wonder  why  grandfather  never  speaks 
of  her  now.  I  thought  she  had  perhaps  offended  him 
or  done  something  wrong,  but  Dick  said  she  hadn't. 
Isn't  it  good  to  love  people  you  have  thought  you  didn't 
like?" 

"  Yes,  Alice,"  he  murmured,  "  so  good.  That  is 
one  of  the  greatest  virtues,  dear  little  sister." 

"  Why  have  you  always  called  me  '  little  sister'  ?" 

"  Because  you  have  been  one  to  me,  and  a  man  needs 
a  sister  such  as  you  are.  There's  not  any  too  much 
love  in  the  world,  Alice.  And  I  think  that  those  whom 
you  call  the  lonely  can  easily  be  forgiven  for  wanting 
all  there  is  to  be  had.  The  real  brother  and  sister  love 
is  the  greatest  of  all,  the  most  disinterested." 

"  Grandfather  used  to  joke  with  me  and  laugh  at 
me  when  he  heard  you  call  me  little  sister,  and  one  day 
he  said  he  hoped  you  would  still  call  me  that  long  after 
the  time  of  his  death." 

"And  so  I  will,  Alice.  No  matter  what  happens  you 
will  be  all  that  to  me.  And  if  I  should  have  to  leave 
the  old  house " 

"What!  Leave  the "  she  started  and  turned 

to  him. 

"  Go  away  for  a  time,"  he  said,  very  tenderly. 

"  But  you  won't !"  she  cried.  Her  face  was  pale 
and  her  lips  trembled. 

"  I'm  afraid  I  must,  Alice,"  he  said,  striving  with" 
difficulty  to  be  firm. 


346  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

"  Oh,  no,  no,  no !  Not  to  leave  us.  Don't  do  that. 
Grandfather  is  so  often  sad  now  and  the  house  seems 
lonelier.  Don't  go!"  she  cried,  supplicatingly,  trying 
to  keep  back  the  tears.  But  of  late  tears  had  weakened 
her  once  bright  eyes,  and  now  they  often  dimmed  her 
sight  before  she  could  stay  them.  She  sank  into  a 
chair  and  wept  bitterly. 

Gower  came  into  the  room  as  Lexham  bent  over 
Alice  to  console  her. 

"  Hullo !  Where's  Diva  ?"  he  cried,  and  looked  first 
at  Alice  and  then  at  Lexham. 

"  Out,"  said  Lexham,  without  trying  to  hide  what 
he  knew  Gower  would  misconstrue. 

"And  you  two  have  been  alone  all  this  time?"  he 
laughed  sarcastically. 

"  Yes.  What  about  it  ?"  Lexham  cried  in  a  voice 
vibrant  with  indignation  and  anger. 

"  Don't  get  vexed,  Lexham,"  he  said ;  "  I  have  sev- 
eral things  to  see  you  about." 

He  turned  on  his  heel  and  went  back  to  his  room. 

"  Alice,  would  you  like  to  go  home  ?"  Lexham 
asked. 

"  No ;  I'll  wait  till  Mrs.  Kembleton  returns,"  she 
said,  "  or  may  I  go  back  to  Mrs.  Sefton  ?"  She  did 
not  look  at  him.  She  kept  her  head  turned  aside  as 
she  spoke.  The  tears  were  staunched  and  her  voice 
had  lost  its  sob.  She  had  got  bravely  over  the  fit, 
but  she  felt  slightly  embarrassed  in  Lexham's  com- 
pany, and  he  knew  it.  As  she  went  towards  the 
door  of  Gower's  room  Mrs.  Laird  came  in  and  said, 
"  Cyril  said  you  wanted  to  see  me."  Alice  left  the 
room. 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  347 

"  Did  he?"  Lexham  said.  "  He  was  mistaken,  but 
I'm  glad  you  are  come."  She  saw  that  he  was  vexed 
with  something, 

"  I've  had  a  talk  with  Elinor,"  Gertrude  said,  "  and 
I  don't  think  she  will  mind  if  he  does  go  away." 

"  Do  you  know  I  feel  sure  that  he  is  not  worth  both- 
ering about.  What  does  he  care?  Has  it  occurred 
to  him  what  she  has  gone  through  to-day, — the  trouble 
and  vexation  which  should  have  been  his  ?  I  think  you 
may  regret  your  kindness  to  him." 

"No,  no;  let  him  have  the  money.  I  shall  soon 
have  gone,  never  to  see  him  again.  I'm  sure  he  will 
do  no  good  by  staying  on  here  with  Elinor.  Then 
I'm  not  so  sure  of  myself.  I  think  I  lose  all  my  wits 
when  he  plays.  What  a  different  being  he  is  when  at 
the  piano!  He  was  playing  a  little  while  ago  and  I 
felt  just  the  same  sweet  thrill  of  joy.  My  nature  can't 
withstand  such  music.  It  assails  my  heart  and  mind 
and  leaves  me  weak, — weak  as  a  passionate  brainless 
creature." 

Lexham  looked  at  her  first  in  astonishment  and  then 
with  something  of  pity.  But  he  could  say  nothing, 
only  throw  up  his  hands,  a  gesture  of  hopelessness. 

"  I  know.  Think  of  me  as  you  will,  I  shan't  be 
able  to  help  myself  if  he  stays.  I  suppose  I  haven't 
the  right  amount  of  brain  to  balance  matters,  for 
music  easily  transports  me.  Do  help  me.  Get  him  to 
accept  the  money.  Make  him  go.  It's  my  only 
chance." 

"  Very  well.  I  shall  settle  the  matter  when  you  are 
gone.  Write  to  him  to-night  and  tell  him  that  you  will 
not  see  him.  And  leave  word  at  your  hotel  that  you 


348  MADAME    BOHEMIA1 

are  out  to  all  callers.  Take  my  advice  and  don't  see 
him  again  after  you  leave  here." 

"You  have  the  money?  Will  it  be  enough?"  she 
asked. 

"  Yes,  quite  enough  for  him  to  squander,"  Lexham 
replied. 

"Let  me  give  you  our  address  in  "Florida."  She 
opened  a  bag  which  hung  from  her  girdle  and  began 
to  search  among  her  papers.  In  doing  so  she  had  to 
lay  some  letters  and  bills  on  a  small  table  to  find  the 
letter  on  which  she  had  written  down  the  address. 

"  Here  it  is,"  she  exclaimed ;  "  take  it  down.  Hotel 
Madrid  near  St.  Augustine,  Florida."  Lexham  wrote 
it  down  in  a  small  note-book. 

Elinor  came  in  as  Gertrude  was  putting  the  bills 
and  letters  back  in  her  bag.  One  letter  fell  on  the 
floor,  but  she  did  not  see  it. 

"Now,  Gilbert,  how  is  this  for  quick  shopping? 
— Oh,  Gertrude!"  Elinor  exclaimed,  just  at  that  mo- 
ment catching  sight  of  her. 

"  You've  changed  your  dress,"  Gertrude  remarked. 

"  Yes ;  and  besides  I've  been  to  the  butcher,  the 
baker,  and  the — and  interviewed  that  terrible  injustice 
to  Ireland  at  the  bottom  of  the  stairs." 

"  Why  don't  you  wear  that  pretty  broach  and  pen- 
dant you  have?  The  turquoise  and  diamonds?"  Ger- 
trude asked,  as  she  set  straight  a  piece  of  lace  at 
Elinor's  neck. 

"  Because  I  can't  fasten  it,"  she  replied,  and  made  a 
moue  for  Lexham's  benefit.  "  Has  Cyril  finished  play- 
ing his  opera?" 

"  Yes,  some  time  ago.     I  think  he  is  now  telling 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  349 

auntie  some  stories  about  Liszt;  she  never  tires  of 
hearing  them." 

"  I  think  Mrs.  Sefton  must  want  a  cup  of  tea.  I 
told  them  to  send  it  up  to  Cyril's  room,"  Elinor  said. 

"  Don't  bother  about  it,"  Gertrude  said ;  "  auntie 
doesn't  much  care  for  tea." 

"  But  you  must  want  a  cup,  I  know  I  do.  Then 
there's  Miss  Oldcastle.  Dear  me,  I've  been  neglect- 
ing my  guests." 

Gower  having  tired  of  telling  stories  came  in  to 
look  for  Elinor. 

"Hullo!"  he  cried,  "where  have  you  been,  Diva? 
Can't  we  have  some  tea?" 

"  Yes,  I'll  see  about  it.  Gilbert,  go  in  to  Mrs.  Sef- 
ton, will  you?"  Elinor  asked.  She  was  just  about  to 
leave  the  room  when  Mrs.  Bettiny  knocked  on  the 
door  and  entered. 

"  Please,  Mrs.  Kembleton,  the  butcher's  down  at  the 
door,  and  he  wants  to  see  you  at  once  most  partic'lar," 
the  landlady  said,  with  a  grin. 

"Confound  the  butcher!"  Gower  snarled.  "Tell 
him  to  wait." 

"  Cyril !"  Elinor  said  sharply,  and  looked  at  him  re- 
provingly. "  I'll  see  him,"  she  said  to  Mrs.  Bettiny, 
and  left  the  room.  The  landlady  followed. 

"  Oh,  I  hate  that  horrible  creature !"  he  cried.  "  She 
never  speaks  a  word  to  Diva  or  me  without  a  jeer  or 
a  leer.  I  don't  know  why  Diva  stays  in  the  house; 
I'm  sick  and  tired  of  asking  her  to  look  for  other 
rooms.  But  she  never  does  anything  to  please  me." 

"  How  do  you  know  that  ?"  Lexham  asked  in  a  quiet 
tone. 


350  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

"  I  wasn't  speaking  to  you,"  Gower  said,  savagely. 

"  I  didn't  know  you  would  mention  such  a  matter 
to  Mrs.  Laird,"  Lexham  muttered  as  he  left  the 
room. 

Gertrude  was  about  to  follow  Lexham  into  the  other 
room  when  Gower  hastened  to  her,  and  said,  "  Wait, 
Gertrude;  I  want  to  speak  to  you." 

"  But  auntie,  she  will " 

"  I  can't  help  it.  I  must  speak  to  you.  We  haven't 
been  alone  for  a  minute  since  this  morning,"  he  cried 
fiercely. 

"  We  were  alone  yesterday  and  you  lost  your  tem- 
per. Now,  what  is  the  matter?"  she  asked  in  a  firm 
voice. 

"  This  torture!  I  can't  endure  it  for  another  hour," 
he  hissed. 

"  What  torture  ?"  She  was  afraid,  but  she  knew 
she  dare  not  let  him  know  it. 

"  What  is  going  on  between  you  and  Lexham  ?" 

"  Nothing  that  should  give  you  cause  to  doubt  him 
or  me." 

She  burned  with  indignation  under  the  insult;  she 
tried  to  leave  the  room.  Mad  with  rage  he  stood  be- 
fore her. 

"  That  is  no  answer !"  he  cried,  raising  his  hands 
as  if  he  would  fling  her  back. 

"  I  refuse  to  be  questioned." 

"  Gertrude,  Gertrude !   I  demand  an  answer." 

"  You  have  no  right " 

"  I  have.  Oh,  don't,  don't  drive  me  to  distraction ! 
Think,  think,  what  you're  doing!  Have  I  not  loved 
you  with  all  my  soul?" 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  351 

"  I  don't  know.     I  would  rather  not  think  of  it." 

"  You  were  alone  with  Lexham  last  night.  Can 
you  deny  it?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Drake  told  me  he  saw  you,"  he  said,  with  assur- 
ance. 

"  I  was  not  with  Mr.  Lexham  last  night." 

"  Then  who  is  it  that  has  lied  ?"  he  demanded. 

"  You  have  believed  Mr.  Drake,"  she  replied,  and 
despised  him. 

"  But  your  letters " 

"  Well,  what  about  them?" 

"  I  saw  one  from  Lexham  this  morning  in  that  bag 
when  we  were  out  shopping.  You  were  cruel  enough 
to  give  me  the  reply  to  take  back  to  him.  Then  on 
his  desk  I  saw  his  answer  to  your  note.  *  I  shall  be 
alone  for  an  hour.  Come  at  once.'  Then  Miss  Old- 
castle  gave  you  one  of  your  pins — found  in  Lexham's 
room." 

"  Well  ?"  Scorn,  cold  like  a  moonbeam,  'flashed; 
from  her  eye. 

"  Can  you  deny  all  that  ?"   he  cried,  hoarsely. 

"  No." 

"  You  don't  care !"  he  exclaimed,  startled  at  his  own 
remark. 

"  Care !  You  have  forgotten,"  she  cried  in  a  tone  of 
despair. 

"  Forgotten!     What  have  I  forgotten?" 

"  That  when  you  brought  your  music  into  my  life 
you  made  me  forget.  And  what  did  I  forget  for  you  ? 
Myself,  my  children,  everything  that  I  should  have  held 
dear.  And  now  you  throw  an  accusation  in  my  face 


352  MADAME   BOHEMIA 

almost  as  bad  as  our  own  offence.  Have  you  no  sense 
of  shame?" 

"  Shame !  .What  shame  ?  Tell  me  what  you 
mean  ?" 

"  Your  insinuation.  You  coupled  my  name  with 
Lexham's." 

"  And  with  good  reason.     You  deny  nothing." 

"  Cyril,  Cyril !     And  after  all  he  has  done  for  you." 

"Done  for  me?" 

"  What !  Well,  pretend  to  be  ignorant  of  that ;  but 
think  of  Diva.  All  she  has  done.  Are  you  without 
a  spark  of  gratitude?  Surely  you  don't  intend  to  add 
calumny  to  insensibility  ?" 

"  This  has  nothing  to  do  with  it.  We  loved  each 
other  till  Lexham  came  between  us.  Now  I  can  re- 
member many  things,— enough  to  make  anyone  sus- 
pect. The  covert  dedications  of  his  books;  the  in- 
scriptions in  the  volumes  he  has  given  you." 

"  I  will  not  listen  to  another  word.  How  can  you 
be  so  base?  Revile  me  as  you  will,  but  Diva  and 
Lexham.  Oh,  Cyril,  this  is  madness!" 

"  Diva !  Lexham !  Leave  Diva  out  of  this.  Lex- 
ham  is  a  liar  and  a  thief.  He  accepts  your  money  and 
gives  his  love  to  little  Oldcastle." 

"  It  is  not  true."     She  started  and  turned  pale. 

"  Ah !  It  is  true !  I  saw  on  his  desk  a  cheque  for 
thousands  from  you.  You  see!  Do  you  think  you 
can  hoodwink  me  ?  Oh,  no.  When  I  sent  you  in  here 
a  few  minutes  ago,  it  was  not  that  Lexham  wanted 
you.  Oh,  no ;  I  wanted  you  to  see  the  little  Oldcastle 
in  tears  and  Lexham  in  the  act  of  drying  them  and  con- 
soling the  chit." 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  353 

"  I  don't  believe  it.  I  won't  believe  it.  Lexham 
is  as  true  as  ever  man  was.  And  you  are  an  abomi- 
nable coward." 

"  Gertrude !"     He  was  stung  to  the  quick. 

"  Had  you  shown  half  the  devotion  to  her  he  has 
shown  you  might  have  been  worthy  even  of  my  love." 
He  started  and  moved  in  a  half-dazed  manner  towards 
her,  but  she  shrank  back,  and  cried,  "  Don't  touch 
me!" 

At  that  moment  Elinor  and  Mrs.  Sefton  came  in. 
Lexham  and  Alice  followed. 

"  Gertrude,"  Mrs.  Sefton  said,  "  you've  missed  a 
cup  of  delicious  tea.  Were  you  ever  in  China,  Eli- 
nor?" 

"  No,  but  a  Chinaman  told  me  the  secret." 

Gower  had  flung  himself  down  on  a  settee.  At  his 
feet  lay  Lexham's  letter,  which  Gertrude  dropped  when 
she  searched  the  papers  in  her  bag  for  the  address  where 
she  was  going  to  stay  in  Florida. 

Elinor  saw  that  Gertrude  was  agitated  and  that  her 
face  was  flushed. 

"  What  is  the  matter?"  she  asked. 

"  Elinor,  may  I  go  into  your  room  ?" 

"  Certainly." 

Gertrude  was  thankful  to  be  left  alone.  Gower  did 
not  notice  her  leave  the  room,  for  he  was  waiting  an 
opportunity  of  speaking  to  Lexham. 

Alice  was  with  Mrs.  Sefton,  to  whose  praise  of 
Gower's  music  she  was  listening  attentively. 

Elinor  went  to  Gower  and  said,  "  Well,  Cyril,  they 
are  delighted  with  your  opera." 

"  Never  mind  the  opera,"  he  said  in  an  under- 
23 


354  MADAME   BOHEMIA 

tone,  "  that's  all  over.     But  I'll  make  Lexham  pay; 
for  it." 

"Pay  for  what?" 

"  I  taxed  Gertrude  with  all  I've  found  out  and  she 
could  deny  none  of  it.  She  tried  to  fool  me,  but  when 
I  told  her  that  I  saw  little  Oldcastle  crying  alone  with 
Lexham,  and  that  he  was  consoling  her,  Gertrude 
turned  pale.  Bah!  it's  as  clear  as  day." 

"Alice  crying;  Gilbert  consoling  her;  Gertrude 
turned  pale,"  Elinor  muttered. 

"  Yes ;  Lexham  has  fooled  us  all.  He  has  been 
living  on  Gertrude  and  making  an  idiot  of  the  little 
girl.'; 

Elinor  looked  in  astonishment  at  Gower,  then 
laughed  and  said,"  Cyril,  you're  making  a  fool  of  your- 
self." 

She  turned  away  from  him  and  joined  the  others, 
who  were  now  looking  at  an  old  book  of  photographs. 
Gower's  eyes  fell  upon  the  letter  at  his  feet.  He  picked 
it  up.  A  moment's  glance  at  the  handwriting  was 
enough.  Another  quick  glance  at  the  signature,  and 
then  he  began  to  read  the  letter. 

"What  are  you  looking  at?"  Elinor  asked  when 
she  joined  the  group,  who  were  looking  at  views  of 
European  places. 

"  Pictures  of  Monte  Carlo,"  Lexham  replied. 

"  Oh,  I  haven't  looked  at  that  old  book  for  years," 
she  said. 

"Were  you  ever  in  Monte  Carlo?"  Mrs.  Sefton 
asked. 

"  Yes.  Years  ago.  Shut  it  up,  Gilbert,"  Elinor 
said. 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  355 

"Why?  The  views  are  so  pretty,"  the  old  lady 
said. 

"  Yes,  pretty,  but  they  remind  me  of  days  I  wish 
to  forget." 

Gower  had  finished  reading  the  letter.  He  rose  and 
crossed  the  room. 

"  Lexham !"  he  called  in  a  peremptory  tone. 

Lexham  went  to  him  and  said,  "  Well,  what  is  it  ?" 

"  You've  lied  to  me,"  Gower  said  in  a  swift  whisper. 

"  What?"  Lexham  clenched  his  hands. 

Gower  shook  with  rage,  and  losing  control  of  his 
anger,  repeated  in  a  loud  voice,  "  You've  lied  to  me !" 

Elinor  hastened  to  Gower's  side.  Alice  was  soon 
with  Lexham.  Mrs.  Sefton  hobbled  to  Elinor's  bed- 
room door,  and  met  Gertrude  coming  out. 

Lexham  walked  away  from  Gower,  and  Alice  went 
to  Elinor  and  cried,  "  What  is  it  ?  Why  did  he  say 
Mr.  Lexham  lied?" 

Elinor  placed  her  arm  round  Alice's  waist. 

A  weird  laugh  from  the  passage  outside  seemed  to 
freeze  the  blood  of  those  in  the  room. 

"Announce  the  devil,  my  Irish  colleen!"  a  voice 
was  crying  above  a  babel  of  tongues. 

"Am  I  in  me  own  house,  am  I  ?"  Mrs.  Bettiny  was 
heard  to  say. 

"  Ask  your  conscience,"  the  first  voice  replied. 

"  Drake !"  Lexham  exclaimed,  and  opened  the  door. 

Oldcastle  entered,  followed  by  Drake  and  the  land- 
lady. 

"Alice,  come  away !"  the  old  man  cried.  But  Old- 
castle's  wild  eyes  and  terrible  expression  of  wrath 
frightened  Alice  and  she  clung  tightly  to  Elinor. 


356  MADAME    BOHEMIA1 

"  Come  away,  child ;  your  father's  blood  is  on  that 
cursed  woman's  soul!" 

"  What !  Mr.  Oldcastle !"  Lexham  cried,  going  to 
the  old  man.  Drake  leered  at  his  friend,  and  began  to 
rub  his  hands  and  chuckle. 

"  Gilbert,  she  is  the  woman !" 

"No!   no!" 

"  Yes !  Valenza !  And  she  would  drive  you  to 
my  son's  cruel  death.  My  son,  my  son!"  Oldcastle 
called  in  solemn  tones,  as  he  went  slowly  towards 
Elinor. 

"  Ge — Ge — Gertrude,  take  me  away,"  Mrs.  Sef- 
ton  said.  "  Come  away  at  once.  Oh,  this  is  ter- 
rible!" 

Alice  still  clung  to  Elinor,  who  stood  as  if  she  were 
transfixed. 

"  Mr.  Oldcastle,  come  with  me,"  Lexham  said,  and 
at  the  same  time  tried  to  draw  the  old  man  away,  but 
Oldcastle  pushed  Lexham  aside  and  stood  a  figure  of 
awful  wrath  before  Elinor. 

"Alice,  come  to  me!"  he  cried,  and  tore  his  grand- 
daughter from  Elinor's  embrace.  "  This  is  his  child. 
She  was  not  born  when  you  cast  off  your  paramour 
and  he  put  an  end  to  his  life." 

"  No,  no !"  Elinor  cried  in  great  agony. 

"  You  took  him  away  from  his  young  wife.  He 
squandered  all  his  honour  and  fortune  on  you, — Va- 
lenza!" 

"  Oh,  Cyril,  Cyril!  What  is  it?  Tell  me,  what  is 
it?  What  have  I  done?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  was  all  the  amazed  Gower  could 
mutter. 


MADAME   BOHEMIA  357 

"  Drake,  what  is  it  all  about  ?"  Lexham  cried,  as  he 
turned  on  Drake  and  shook  him. 

"  He — is — the  father  of  the  man — who  shot  him- 
self at  her  bedroom  door,"  Drake  stammered  and 
chuckled. 

"  Yes,  I  am  he !"  Oldcastle  shouted,  and  his  wrath 
burst  into  fierce  denunciation.  "  I  swore  that  I  would 
kill  you  for  your  crimes.  What  law  can  give  me  jus- 
tice? I  saw  my  son  desert  his  wife  and  follow  you. 
For  you  he  almost  ruined  me.  But  money  was  not 
all  your  cursed  passion  craved.  No,  vampire,  blood 
you  craved  when  all  his  gold  was  gone.  And  blood 
you  had.  First  his  life,  and  then  the  mother  of  his 
new-born  babe  died,  and  then  from  grief  his  wife's 
sister  died.  We  are  left.  His  child  and  his  father! 
And  you  would  have  me  stand  quietly  by  and  watch 
you  do  with  him — with  Lexham — what  you  did  to 
my  son.  No!" 

The  old  man  raised  his  hand  as  if  he  would  strike 
Elinor,  but  Alice  caught  his  arm  and  clung  to  it. 
Lexham  saw  Elinor  reel,  but  in  a  moment  he  held  her 
in  his  arms. 

Mrs.  Sefton  with  Gertrude  hurried  away,  and  Gower, 
the  prey  of  conflicting  passions,  sank  down  on  a  chair, 
dazed  and  irresolute. 

"  Grandfather,  come,  come  away,"  Alice  murmured. 

Then  she  turned  to  Lexham,  her  face  wet  with  tears 
and  an  expression  of  sad  bewilderment,  and  said,  "  Oh, 
Gilbert,  is  it  true?" 

"  Go,  Alice ;   go  home,  child,"  Lexham  said. 

Gower  turned  and  looked  around,  then  sprang  to 
his  feet.  "  They  are  gone !"  he  yelled  in  Lexham's 


358  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

face.  "  Gone !  You  answer  to  me  for  this !  It's  all 
your  fault."  Then  he  ran  to  the  door.  Drake  laughed 
as  Gower  passed  him.  But  Gower  did  not  hear  it; 
he  hastened  away  to  overtake  Gertrude. 

"  Dick,  help  me,"  Alice  said.  "  Come,  take  grand- 
father's arm." 

Oldcastle's  wrath  still  burned  in  his  eyes.  They  led 
him  away.  Elinor  sat  like  one  struck  by  lightning. 
She  was  confounded — stunned. 

"  Ye  carn't  stay  here,"  Mrs.  Bettiny  snarled.  "  Yer 
a  disrepible  charactur,  ye  are." 

"  Leave  the  room,"  Lexham  said. 

"  No ;  let  us  go,"  Elinor  murmured. 

Lexham  took  up  a  cloak;  it  was  Gertrude's,  but  he 
did  not  know  it;  this  he  placed  on  Elinor's  shoulders 
and  assisted  her  to  rise.  He  took  her  arm  and  led 
her  from  the  room. 

Mrs.  Bettiny  turned  out  the  light  and  chuckled  in 
the  darkness. 


CHAPTER   XXII 

WHEN  Dick  and  Alice  took  Oldcastle  into  Lexham's 
room  to  rest  before  trying  the  ascent  of  the  long  stair- 
case which  led  to  his  room  they  had  no  idea  of  the 
seriousness  of  the  old  man's  plight.  For  years  he  had 
suffered  from  a  weak  heart,  and  the  strain  and  excite- 
ment of  the  scene  at  Elinor's  had  nearly  been  the  cause 
of  a  crisis.  Drake  had  partly  recovered  from  his  fit. 
He  seemed  to  be  now  quite  lucid.  After  strong  drink 
that  strange  phase  of  his  madness  always  attacked 
him  for  periods  more  or  less  long. 

"  Dick,  I'm  afraid  grandfather  is  ill,"  Alice  said  in 
a  whisper. 

"  Excitement.  He'll  be  all  right,"  Drake  muttered. 
"  Should  we  get  him  upstairs  ?" 

f<  Yes,  in  a  minute  or  two,"  she  replied. 

Alice  went  to  the  cupboard  in  the  sideboard  and 
took  out  the  brandy,  poured  a  little  into  a  glass,  mixed 
it  with  water,  and  held  it  to  her  grandfather's  lips. 
Drake  was  then  at  Lexham's  desk.  He  picked  up  the 
cheque. 

"Alice,  here's  a  cheque  for  a  lot  of  money,"  he  said. 
"  Better  not  let  it  lie  round  here  while  Lexham's  out." 

"  You  take  care  of  it,  and  give  it  to  him  when  he 
comes  in,"  she  said. 

Drake  folded  up  the  cheque  and  put  it  in  his  pocket. 

Lexham's  door  bell  rang. 

"Wait,  Dick.  Let  me  get  grandfather  upstairs," 

359 


360  MADAME    BOHEMIA1 

Alice  said,  as  she  intercepted  Drake,  who  was  starting 
out  to  open  the  door. 

"All  right.  Better  not  have  any  more  excitement," 
he  said. 

Alice  looked  at  the  old  man,  who  was  resting 
quietly. 

"  Oh,  Dick,  Dick,"  she  cried  in  a  voice  almost  choked 
with  sobbing,  "  what  was  it  all  about  ?  Did  she  kill 
my  father?" 

"  Now,  Alice,  there  you  go  again,  asking  questions," 
Drake  muttered,  looking  at  her  in  a  quizzical  way. 

"  But  don't  you  remember  what  he  said  ?" 

"Yes,  of  course.     What  did  he  say?" 

Alice  peered  into  his  face  and  saw  that  he  was 
not  quite  himself.  She  shook  her  head  in  a  de- 
spairing way,  and  cried  very  softly,  "  Oh,  Dick, 
Dick!" 

"  The  Angel  upstairs,"  was  all  he  muttered  as  he 
stretched  out  his  thin  arms  to  her  in  a  supplicating 
manner. 

Lexham's  door  bell  again  rang. 

"  Come,  grandfather,  do  you  think  you  are  strong 
enough  ?" 

"  Yes,  Alice.  Strong  enough  now,"  he  replied. 
She  and  Dick  assisted  him  to  rise. 

"  Go,  Dick,  open  the  door,"  Alice  said.  He  looked 
blankly  at  her.  "  Open  the  door." 

The  person  waiting  to  be  admitted  gave  a  more 
energetic  pull  at  the  bell.  Drake  went  out,  and  Alice, 
with  her  arm  around  her  grandfather  and  his  over  her 
shoulders,  helped  him  to  the  stairs.  The  outer  door 
was  opened  and  closed,  and  Mrs.  Laird  followed  by 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  361 

Drake  entered  the  room.  Alice  called  out  for  the 
servant  when  she  reached  the  foot  of  the  stairs. 

"  I  want  to  see  Mr.  Lexham,"  Gertrude  said. 

"  Not  in."     Drake  again  seemed  quite  lucid. 

"  I  must  see  him  to-night.  After  I  took  my  aunt 
to  the  hotel  I  went  back  to  Mrs.  Kembleton's,  but  the 
woman  there  told  me  she  had  left  the  house,  so  I  drove 
rapidly  here." 

"  Sit  down,  will  you  ?"  Gertrude  went  to  sit  on 
the  chair  at  Lexham's  desk.  "  Not  there,  please." 

She  had  heard  from  Lexham  about  Drake's  peculiar- 
ities. She  saw  that  he  was  now  in  an  irritably  nervous 
state. 

"Do  you  think  Mr.  Lexham  will  soon  come  in?" 
she  asked. 

"  Maybe.  Better  wait."  He  had  been  wandering 
about  the  room.  Suddenly  he  stopped  and  stood 
before  her.  "  Confound  it !"  he  cried  in  a  fit  of  anger, 
"  what  have  I  got  to  tell  you  ?" 

"  Tell  me,"  she  said  in  a  soft  voice  to  humour  him. 

"  Didn't  you  give  me  a  lot  of  money — oh,  never 
mind.  That  cheque,  I  know.  It's  all  right.  What's 
going  on  to-night?  Say,  Mrs.  Laird,  I  can  see 
trouble  here.  The  room  is  full  of  it.  But  she  was  all 
right.  Fine  voice.  God !  he  kicked  her  on  the  chest ! 
You  didn't  know  him,  did  you?  He  was  a  swine. 
Ever  had  anything  wrong  with  your  bridge  of  reminis- 
cence? I'm  up  against  it  to-night.  It  would  be  all 
right  if  it  were  not  for  Alice,  but  you  know  she  mustn't 
suffer." 

Muttering  in  this  incoherent  strain  he  moved  about 
the  room.  Gertrude  pretended  to  heed  him  when 


362  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

every  now  and  then  he  turned  to  her,  but  she  was 
mostly  occupied  in  writing  a  note  to  Lexham. 

"  I  know  what  it  is !"  he  cried,  and  went  to  the  side- 
board. To  his  surprise  he  saw  the  decanter  of  brandy. 
He  took  a  long  drink.  "  I'll  be  all  right  in  a  minute. 
Ah,  that  was  it!" 

A  loud  ringing  of  the  bell  startled  Gertrude.  She 
rose  and  went  quickly  to  Drake. 

"  Don't  open  the  door.  Mr.  Lexham  wouldn't  ring. 
iWait." 

"  All  right.     If  it  isn't  Lexham,  others  must  wait." 

"  Is  there  any  way  of  seeing  who  rings  ?"  she  asked. 

"  Yes.  Wait  a  minute,"  Drake  said  coolly,  starting 
to  leave  the  room. 

"  No,  no,  without  opening  the  door." 

"  Oh!"  he  ejaculated,  and  after  a  moment's  thought 
shook  his  finger  at  Gertrude  in  a  wise  manner.  "  The 
stained-glass  window." 

Another  aggressive  pull  at  the  bell. 

Drake  stood  up  on  the  window-seat  and  peered 
through  as  best  he  could. 

"  Who  is  it?"   Gertrude  asked. 

"  Gower,"  he  replied. 

"  What  shall  I  do  ?     I  don't  want  to  meet  him." 

"  All  right ;  he  can't  get  in,"  said  Drake,  still  peer- 
ing through  the  window. 

«  But  I " 

"Wait;  I  want  to  see  him  pull  the  bell.  What  a 
sweet  boy  he  was !  Golden  curls  and  pink  cheeks  when 
his  adoptive  father  pinched  them.  Ssh !  Listen !" 

The  bell,  louder  than  before,  pealed  through  the 
house. 


MADAME   BOHEMIA  363 

"Ah !"  said  Drake,  with  great  gusto,  "  I  should  just 
like  to  sit  down  for  an  hour  and  listen  to  him  pulling 
at  the  bell  and  imagine  all  he  would  be  thinking." 

"  No,  no,  Mr.  Drake,  I  must  see  Mr.  Lexham,  but 
I  don't  want  to  meet  Mr.  Gower.  I  presume  you  must 
let  him  in,"  Gertrude  said. 

"  Yes,  I  respect  the  bell.  You  want  to  wait?"  Drake 
asked. 

"  I  should  like  to,  if  you  know  of  a  room  where " 

"  Come  with  me."  He  opened  a  door  and  pointed 
down  a  passage.  "  See  that  door  ?  Go  in  there.  The 
devil  himself  wouldn't  think  of  looking  for  you  in 
there,"  he  said,  and  laughed. 

"  Why,  what ?"  Gertrude  felt  a  little  timid. 

"  It's  my  room.  Stay  there.  I'll  let  you  know  when 
Lexham  comes  in.  Don't  be  afraid.  It's  all  right. 
Go  on."  He  watched  her  go  down  the  passage  and 
enter  his  room;  then  he  closed  the  door,  went  back 
to  the  window  and  peered  through  again  at  Gower. 
.Without  hurrying  he  went  out  and  let  him  in.  As 
he  came  into  the  room  Gower  cried,  "  Why  did  you 
keep  me  waiting?" 

"  Don't  know.     Was  always  fond  of  bell-ringers." 

"  Stop  that,  you  grinning  idiot.  Where's  Lexham  ?" 

"Yes,  where  is  he?"  said  Drake,  throwing  himself 
into  a  chair. 

"Is  he  here?"  Gower  cried.  He  was  in  a  towering 
rage. 

"  No,  I  can't  see  him,"  said  Dick,  glancing  round 
the  room. 

"  Curse  you,  Drake,  don't  you  annoy  me  to-night 
or  I'll  shake  the  life  out  of  you !"  Gower  hissed. 


364  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

"  Sit  down,  if  you're  going  to  wait  for  Lexham." 

"  I  am  going  to  wait  for  him,  and  I  don't  want  you 
in  here  when  he  comes  in.  Two  of  us  will  be  enough." 

"  Why,  what's  the  trouble?  What  harm  did  Lex- 
ham  ever  do  you?" 

"  That  I  shall  tell  him.  And  I've  a  damn  good  mind 
to  shake  some  truth  out  of  you.  What  was  all  that 
Oldcastle  said  about  his  son?  What  had  Mrs.  Kem- 
bleton  to  do  with  him?  Curse  you,  you  know  some- 
thing, you  drunken  fiend.  Tell  me.  What  was  it?" 

Drake  laughed  at  him.  But  the  other  shrank  back, 
for  the  wicked  gleam  in  Drake's  eyes  and  the  horrible 
wickedness  of  his  laughter  turned  Gower's  blood  cold. 

"Ah,  you  have  no  sense  of  humour,  my  dear  Cyril," 
Drake  said,  suddenly  changing  his  tone  to  one  of 
sneering  contempt.  "  Besides,  you  have  no  memory, 
no  spark  of  gratitude.  You  call  me  a  grinning  idiot. 
Do  you  see  this  mark  on  my  forehead?  I  told  you 
once  before  how  that  was  done.  There  are  some 
things  men  of  your  calibre  should  not  be  permitted  to 
forget.  If  the  vase  that  struck  me  there  had  hit  the 
boy  at  which  it  was  thrown, — you, — you  might  have 
been  the  grinning  idiot.  Healing  does  not  always 
take  away  the  pain,  and  a  scoundrel's  work  is  never 
brought  to  an  end." 

"What  was  it?  What  was  it?"  Gower  cried  in 
passionate  despair.  "  Some  damnable  spectre  has 
haunted  us  since  I  was  a  boy.  Whose  spectre?" 

"  Her  husband's,  your  adoptive  father's,"  Drake  ex- 
claimed. "You  call  me  a  drunken  fiend.  Why? 
Why?  He  was  the  fiend,  and  left  me  his  cursed  soul 
as  a  legacy.  Drink  ?  Drink  ?"  He  burst  into  a  peal 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  365 

of  frightful  laughter.  "  Think,  I  spent  nearly  three 
years  with  that  thing.  And  do  you  know  what  my  real 
duty  was  ?" 

"  You  were  Mrs.  Kembleton's  secretary,"  Gower 
muttered  in  a  frightened  voice. 

"  No ;  that  position  was  a  cloak.  Secretary !  I  was 
engaged  to  watch  him.  Night  and  day  watchman  of 
his  blackened  soul.  To  drag  him  from  the  gaming- 
table when  he  was  losing ;  to  drag  him  out  of  quarrels 
when  mad  from  drink;  to  save  your  head  from  mis- 
siles thrown  at  you ;  sometimes,  to  save  her  when  mur- 
der was  in  him " 

"  Stop,  stop !     Tell  me  no  more !"   Grower  cried. 

"  We're  all  tainted.  That  man  smeared  every- 
one he  came  in  contact  with.  Look  out,  Gower.  Im- 
pending danger  affects  me  as  a  coming  storm  affects 
cattle.  Go  home.  I've  seen  you  and  Lexham — no! 
Go  home!" 

"  No ;  I  am  come  for  no  child's  play.  This  business 
must  to-night  be  settled  once  and  for  all.  Lexham 
has  lied,  and " 

Gower's  eyes  fell  upon  the  note  which  Gertrude 
began  to  write  before  he  rang  the  bell  and  interrupted 
her.  Though  the  letter  was  intended  for  Lexham  she 
had  not  addressed  it  in  the  customary  way.  Gower 
picked  it  up  and  read  it  aloud: 

"  In  case  you  should  be  later  than'  I  dare  wait,  come 
to  the  hotel  as  soon  as  possible  before  eleven.  Auntie 
is  in  a  dreadfully  nervous  state  and  I  want  you  to 
assure  her." 

Gower  looked  puzzled,  but  Drake's  head  turned 
slowly  aside,  and  a  smile  spread  over  his  face. 


366  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

"  What  is  this  ?"  Gower  asked. 

"  A  note  for  you,  I  suppose,"  Drake  said,  slyly. 

"  Has  Mrs.  Laird  been  here  ?" 

"  Yes.     She  was  here  when  you  rang  the  bell." 

"  Where  is  she  now  ?"  Gower  cried,  and  he  took 
Drake  by  the  throat. 

"  I'm  pretty  good  at  that  business  myself,"  Drake 
said,  as  he  clutched  Gower's  arm,  twisted  it,  and  shook 
him  off.  "  Don't  try  that  again,  else  you  may  find 
me  something  besides  a  drunken  fiend.  She  is  gone. 
Can't  you  understand  the  note?  She  told  me  she  had 
been  to  your  house,  but  the  servant  told  her  no  one 
was  there.  She  came  here.  She  doesn't  want  you  to 
meet  Lexham.  Can't  you  understand?  She  wants 
you  to  assure  her  aunt  about  something." 

"  How  did  she  get  out  ?"   Gower  demanded. 

"  By  the  other  door  on  the  Square." 

"  That  door  has  not  been  used  by  Lexham  or  you 
since  the  Oldcastles  let  the  other  part  of  the  house." 

"  I  used  it  to-night.  You're  wasting  time,  my  sus- 
picious friend.  Lexham  may  not  come  for  hours  yet," 
Drake  said. 

"  Lexham  may  be  there — with  her — at  the  hotel !" 
Gower  cried,  starting  at  the  thought  of  such  a  proba- 
bility. 

"  Now  you  are  talking  sense." 

"  Drake,  my  whole  future  depends  on  what  happens 
to-night.  I  called  on  Mrs.  Laird  at  her  hotel.  The 
porter  told  me  she  was  out.  I  thought  that  meant  she 
would  not  see  me " 

"  She  couldn't  see  you  then;  she  was  here,"  said 
Drake. 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  367 

"  Why  did  you  let  her  out  the  other  way  ?"  Gower 
asked. 

"  She  asked  me  to.  How  could  she  know  you  were 
at  that  door?" 

"  I  shall  go  back.  Let  me  out  that  way,"  said 
Gower,  pointing  at  the  door  which  led  to  the  passage 
to  Drake's  room. 

"  What  for  ?  I  obliged  a  woman  in  distress,  but  I 
don't  see  the  necessity  of  again  trespassing  to  oblige 
you." 

Drake  went  to  the  door  by  which  Gower  entered,  and 
Gower  saw  his  opportunity  to  rush  into  Lexham's 
bedroom.  This  he  did,  but  soon  came  back  satisfied 
that  no  one  was  hiding  in  there. 

"  Well,"  said  Drake,  "  any  other  rooms  or  nooks 
you  would  like  to  search?" 

"  No !  I  shall  go  to  the  hotel,"  Gower  said,  as  he 
picked  up  his  hat  and  left  the  room. 

Drake  stood  still  for  a  moment.  The  outer  door 
shut  with  a  bang.  It  was  the  signal  for  a  peal  of 
laughter  from  Drake.  He  ran  to  the  window-seat, 
stepped  up,  and  peered  through  the  stained  glass, 
and  saw  Gower's  figure  hurrying  away  in  the 
direction  of  Mrs.  Laird's  hotel.  Then  he  went  to 
the  other  door,  opened  it,  and  down  the  passage 
he  whispered,  penetratingly,  "  Mrs.  Laird."  She 
opened  the  door  of  Drake's  room  and  whispered, 
"Yes?" 

"  He  is  gone,"  he  said  in  a  louder  tone.  She  came 
into  the  room. 

"  What  shall  I  do?     I  am  so  afraid  of  him." 

"  Wait  here.    He  has  gone  back  to  your  hotel.    You 


368  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

left  a  note  on  the  desk  there,  and  I  think  I  succeeded 
in  making  him  believe  it  was  for  him." 

"  It  was  for  Mr.  Lexham,"  she  said  in  a  tone  of 
alarm. 

:'  Yes,  I  know.  But  Gower  will  come  back.  Can't 
you  see  Lexham  to-morrow?" 

"  No,  no ;  I  leave  New  York  at  nine  o'clock  in  the 
morning." 

"  Well,  don't  meet  Gower  to-night.  He  is  danger- 
ous." 

"  How  shall  I  get  back  to  the  hotel  ?  Listen  to  the 
rain." 

"  Wait  here  till  he  comes,  and  I'll  make  him  suspect 
that  you  are  hiding  in  my  room.  If  he  will  go  in 
there  for  a  moment,  I'll  lock  him  up  till  you  get  back 
to  your  hotel,"  Drake  said. 

"  Oh,  it  is  good  of  you,  Mr.  Drake." 

"  Not  at  all.     I'm  quite  delighted." 

The  door  bell  was  again  rung.     They  were  startled. 

"  Here  conies  the  furious  Cyril  back  again.  Go  into 
Lexham's  room.  He'll  not  look  there  again  for  you. 
Now  don't  come  out  till  I  call  you." 

She  was  going  into  the  bedroom  when  Drake,  in  a 
changed  voice,  said,  "  Wait." 

"  What  is  the  matter  now  ?"  she  asked,  surprised 
at  the  serious  expression  of  his  face. 

"  I  think  you  had  better  leave  here.  It  is  strange, 
but  I  feel  sure  this  room  is  full  of  trouble." 

"  Dick,  Dick !"  Alice  called  from  the  stairs. 

"  Ssh !  Go  in,"  Drake  said.  "  Turn  out  the  light, 
and  don't  come  out  till  I  call  you."  He  pushed  Ger- 
trude into  the  bedroom  and  closed  the  door. 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  369 

Alice  came  in.  Her  face  was  pale.  She  was 
alarmed. 

"  Dick,  go  for  a  doctor.  Grandfather  is  much  worse. 
Go  quickly,  Dick." 

"  There  is  someone  at  the  door,  Alice,"  he  said. 
"Did  you  open  it?" 

"  Yes.  It  was  our  bell.  Only  a  message  for  grand- 
father," she  explained.  "  It  is  a  dreadful  night ;  put 
on  your  coat." 

"  No,  I  want  the  rain ;  I  love  it,"  he  said.  "  There 
is  no  other  sound  like  it." 

"  But,  Dick,  to-night  I  feel  it  in  my  heart,"  she 
said,  and  shuddered. 

"  Poor  little  Alice !"  Drake  said,  sympathetically. 

"  Don't  wait.  Go,  go !  You  know  Dr.  Bryant  on 
Madison  Avenue." 

"  Yes,  it's  all  right.  I  shan't  be  long  gone.  I  had 
something  to  tell  you,  Alice."  He  hesitated  and  tried 
to  think  of  what  he  had  to  tell  her.  "  .What  was  it?" 
he  muttered. 

"  Tell  me  when  you  come  back !"  she  cried  plead- 
ingly. 

"  I've  forgotten.  Well,  anyway,  it's  all  right,  and 
you  won't  suffer." 

She  put  his  hat  in  his  hand  and  urged  him  out.  She 
stood  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  listening  for  a  sound 
from  the  rooms  above.  Then  she  came  in,  went  to 
the  large  window  and  drew  the  curtains  close.  A 
large  high-backed  arm-chair  she  wheeled  in  front  of 
the  fire,  and  pulled  round  a  screen  behind  it  to  keep  off 
the  draught  from  the  window.  Alice  placed  the  chair 
in  such  a  position  before  the  fire  that  anyone  sitting 

24 


370  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

in  it  would  be  invisible  from  the  other  half  of  the 
room.  From  an  old  box  she  took  out  slippers  and 
laid  them  down  near  the  fender.  A  neighbouring 
church  clock  struck  the  hour.  She  shivered  as  she 
knelt  down  and  warmed  her  hands  at  the  fire.  The 
rain  outside  was  falling  in  torrents  and  the  wind 
moaned  and  whistled  through  the  dense  telegraph- 
wires.  All  these  familiar  sounds  seemed  then  to  affect 
her  strangely.  She  took  up  the  slippers  and  warmed 
them  at  the  fire.  Tears  were  trickling  down  her 
cheeks.  A  heavy  sigh,  far  too  heavy  for  her  young 
heart,  shook  her  tender  breast.  She  rose  and  looked 
round  the  room;  stretched  out  her  arms  as  if  she 
would  clasp  the  well-loved  figure  that  was  ever  in  her 
mind.  With  slow  steps  she  left  the  room  and  ascended 
the  stairs  to  kneel  lovingly  by  the  old  man  who  was  the 
last  kin  she  had  on  earth. 

Drake  said,  "  a  scoundrel's  work  is  never  brought 
to  an  end."  There  was  Alice  bereft  of  father,  mother, 
and  others  less  dear,  and  now  her  grandfather  was 
perhaps  "  so  near"  the  threshold  across  which  the  land 
of  all  souls  lies. 

Now  into  that  room  "  full  of  trouble,"  as  Drake  said, 
came  two  others;  their  separate  griefs  had  the  one 
source. 

Yet  neither  knew  the  depth  of  the  other's  agony. 

"  Gilbert,  I  am  as  cold  as  death,"  Elinor  said,  and 
shivered  when  she  felt  the  new  warmth  of  the  room. 

"  The  rain.  You  are  wet  through,  dear,"  he  said, 
taking  off  the  cloak  she  wore,  which  was  Gertrude's. 
This  he  spread  out  to  dry  over  the  back  of  a  chair. 

"  No,  it's  not  the  rain,  Gilbert.     Something  else. 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  371 

Something  crushing,  crushing  me  down.  What  have 
I  done?  What  have  I  done?"  she  moaned. 

"Hush,  Elinor,  my  love;  have  courage,"  he  said, 
as  he  led  her  to  the  large  chair. 

"  Courage !  That  has  never  served  me  well.  No, 
there  is  something  beyond  the  power  of  my  puny  will 
fighting  me,  blasting  my  life,  and  thwarting  all  my 
efforts.  I  had  nothing  to  do  with  his  son's  death. 
Oh,  why  did  you  bring  me  here?" 

"  I  did  not  wish  to  leave  you  alone.  You  must  stay 
here  to-night.  I  can't  leave  you,  Elinor.  See,  dear, 
you  are  drenched  with  rain.  Come,  take  off  your 
blouse  and  throw  my  old  rug  over  your  shoulders. 
Oh,  Elinor,  I  did  not  know  how  dear  you  were  to  me 
till  now!" 

"Ah,  Gilbert,  that  is  because  all  but  you  are  against 
me.  You  always  throw  your  lot  in  with  the  weaker. 
Did  you  see  how  quickly  the  dear  old  lady  and  Ger- 
trude ran  away?  And  Cyril,  did  you  see  him  shrink 
when  I  turned  to  him?  I  thought  the  old  man  was 
going  to  strangle  me.  I  would  rather  he  had  done  so 
than  see  Cyril  shrink  away  from  me." 

Lexham  had  taken  off  her  shoes  and  put  his  slippers 
on  her  feet.  She  slipped  off  her  blouse  and  skirt  more 
to  please  him  than  for  her  own  comfort. 

"  Will  you  go  into  my  room,  dear,  and " 

"  No,  no,"  she  interposed ;  "  what  does  it  matter  ? 
Come  here,  Gilbert.  That  old  man  must  know  about 
his  son.  He  must  not  go  to  his  grave " 

"  Hush,  Elinor ;   hush,  dear,"  he  murmured. 

"  You  do  not  believe  I  had  anything  to  do  with"  his 
death?" 


372  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

"  Let  us  not  speak  of  it,  dear,"  Lexham  said  in  a 
gentle  voice. 

"  No,  no,  we  must  speak  of  it.  You  do  not  be- 
lieve?" 

"  No,  dear ;  but  you  must  keep  quiet,  Elinor." 

"  Say  you  do  not  believe  it !"  she  cried,  passion- 
ately. 

"  I  do  not  believe  it,  Elinor,"  he  said,  and  his  voice 
was  shaken. 

"  But  he  must  know  the  truth.  But  how  ?  How 
shall  he  know,  Gilbert?  Oh!  I  remember  it  so  well! 
That  night  I  lost  my  voice.  Ah,  dear,  you  never  heard 
me  sing.  What  happened?  What  happened?  I 
heard  the  report  of  the  pistol.  I  was  just  going  to 
leave  my  room  to  go  to  the  opera-house.  Cyril  heard 
me  scream  and  came  running  through  the  rooms  to 
me.  And  he,  he,  my  husband,  kicked  the  child.  When 
I  interfered  he  struck  me  a  heavy  blow  here  and  I  fell. 
Is  that  all  I  remember?  Oh!  oh!  after  all  these 
years.  What  was  it?  Why  am  I  accused  and  can- 
not clear  myself?" 

"  Elinor,  Elinor,  think  no  more  of  it !"  Lexham 
cried.  His  very  soul  ached  for  her,  but  he  was  power- 
less to  help  her.  Her  terrible  struggles  to  remember 
what  really  happened  that  night  were  painful  to  be- 
hold. 

"I  never  mentioned  my  husband  to  you  before,  did  I, 
Gilbert?  I  did  not  intend  to  speak  of  him,"  she  said, 
with  a  shudder  of  loathing. 

"  He  struck  you  ?"  Lexham  asked  in  a  tone  of  great 
surprise  and  pity. 

"  Struck  me.     Ha !  ha !     Yes,  and  kicked  me.     Oh, 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  373 

often.  But  that  was  nothing.  His  cowardice  and 
brutality  were  diseases.  Poor  little  Cyril !"  She  mur- 
mured the  last  words  in  a  kind  of  reverie  with  infinite 
gentleness  and  pity. 

"  Elinor,  do  you  remember  what  I  spoke  of  this 
afternoon  when  I  asked  you  if  you  would  willingly 
leave  New  York  with  me?" 

"  And  go  into  the  country  to  live  ?" 

"  Yes,  dear.  Will  you  come  ?  To-morrow  ?  Leave 
these  awful  things  behind  us." 

"  Leave  them  behind  us.  How  can  that  be  done  ?" 
she  cried,  and  then  broke  out  into  another  passionate 
fit.  "  I  left  Europe  nearly  twenty  years  ago.  But 
did  I  leave  the  awful  things  behind  me  ?  No,  no ;  there 
is  no  escape.  Go  where  I  will  there  is  not  a  corner  of 
rest  for  me.  And  now  worse  than  ever.  Where  can 
I  hide  myself  away  from  the  figure  of  that  old  man 
crying  for  his  son?  But  it  is  not  right  that  I  should 
drag  myself  after  you  and  let  you  be  pestered  by  the 
shadows  which  haunt  my  life." 

"What  are  you  saying,  Elinor?  Stop,  stop!"  He 
was  amazed  at  the  changed  expression  of  her  face  and 
the  bitterness  of  her  tone. 

"  Leave  it,  eh  ?  Nasty,  uncomfortable,  disquieting 
phantoms.  You  know  I  couldn't  forget.  My  forget- 
fulness  was  the  stupor  of  a  mind  racked  with  teeming 
recollections.  Years  of  an  angry  memory's  toil.  Yes, 
I  forgot  it  all.  My  memory  exhausted  its  own  faculty, 
and  now,  now  that  it  has  been  so  cruelly  revived  and 
awakened,  you  ask  me  to  go  away  with  you — to  for- 
get!" 

"  Not  to  make  it  Harder  for  you,  Elinor.     But  I 


374  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

know  my  love  for  you  is  strong  enough  to  let  you 
find  some  peace  in  it,"  he  said,  with  great-  tender- 
ness. 

"  Peace !  What  peace  ?  My  most  tranquil  moment 
will  make  me  fear  the  worst.  Thunderbolts  from  a 
cloudless  sky.  No,  there  will  be  no  peace  for  me  till 
that  old  man  is  satisfied.  And  what  else?  God,  if  I 
can  be  accused  of  such  a  crime,  who  knows  what  else 
of  misery  lies  in  store  for  me?  Could  you  with  all 
your  love,  when  at  last  nothing  but  relentless  adversity 
overwhelms  me  and  assails  your  peace  of  mind,  pre- 
serve me  from  madness?" 

He  was  silent.  He  could  not  speak;  and  she  saw 
that  he  was  hurt,  wounded  by  her  words. 

"  Oh,  Gilbert,  forgive  me !"  she  cried,  and  threw 
her  arms  about  him  and  wept  in  sore  grief. 

"  Hush !  hush !  You  are  not  yourself  to-night.  My 
Elinor,  I  would  give  my  life  to  help  you.  Come, 
dear." 

"  Thank  you,  Gilbert.  Thanks  for  your  love,  the 
only  real  joy  I've  known.  Thanks  for  your  manliness, 
my  greatest  pride.  Oh,  how  young  you  look  to-night ! 
Your  youth  mocks  me  and  makes  me  feel  the  near  ap- 
proach of  years  which  will  soon  cover  me  with  the  veil 
of  age." 

"  No,  no,  sweet  Elinor,  you  will  be  ever  young  to 
me,"  he  said. 

"  Think !  Only  three  short  years  of  love.  Three 
short  years  in  my  long  life.  Oh,  the  bitterness  when 
this  must  pass !" 

"  It  must  not  pass.  Come,  put  away  those  phantom 
fears.  Marry  me !"  he  pleaded. 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  375 

"  No !  That  would  not  be  just,  not  right,"  she  said, 
in  anguish. 

"  Let  me  live  all  my  life  for  you.  Who  has  a  better 
right  to  it?  You  saved  it.  Your  thought  and  care 
brought  into  it  the  only  happiness  I  have  known. 
Think,  Elinor,  how  much  we  two  have  yet  to  accom- 
plish. All  our  schemes  may  yet  be  realised.  Be  my 
wife." 

"  No,  no ;  don't  tempt  me,  Gilbert.  I'm  as  weak  as 
a  reed  to-night." 

"  But,  Elinor " 

"  No !  no !  no !  If  I  said  yes  to-night  I  would  curse 
myself  to-morrow.  Look  at  me^  surely  I  have  changed 
to-night.  I  can  feel  the  marks  of  misery  and  age 
upon  my  face.  Oh,  but  I  cannot  let  you  go !  I  must 
not  marry  you,  though  I  can't  give  you  up.  I  am  cruel 
to  you." 

"  Forgive  me,  Elinor ;  believe  me,  no  worldly  scru- 
ples prompt  me  now,  but  I  have  thought  of  this  so 
much  of  late.  We  must  leave  New  York — for  your 
sake.  Our  names  are  on  many  tongues.  Blackston, 
Windham,  Oldcastle,  have  told  me  what  people  are 
saying.  That  for  myself  I  do  not  heed;  but  Cyril, 
suppose  he  were  to  hear  what  is  being  said?  You 
know  him.  Do  you  think  he  knows  ?" 

"  Cyril !"  she  said  in  a  startled  tone.  "  Cyril !  I 
— I  don't  know.  The  thought  of  Cyril  knowing  has 
never  occurred  to  me."  The  thought  was  a  shock 
to  her. 

"  He  would  be  the  first  to  sneer,"  Lexham  said. 

11  Well,  let  him  sneer.  No  act  of  his  can  hurt  me 
now,"  she  said,  bitterly. 


376  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

"  He  Hurt  you  when  he  turned  away  from  you  to- 
day. He  had  no  word  to  say  in  your  defence.  He 
made  no  remonstrance  when  Oldcastle — but  this,  our 
affair,  is  a  different  matter.  You  think  the  old  love 
for  him,  the  love  you  bore  him  when  he  was  a  boy,  is 
dead.  It  is  not  dead,  Elinor.  It  will  never  die.  He 
has  become  a  part  of  your  suffering.  Why,  a  moment 
ago,  you  thought  of  him  as  he  was,  and  I  know  when 
you  said  '  Poor  little  Cyril !'  your  heart  ached  for 
him." 

"  Yes,  perhaps ;  oh,  Gilbert,  Gilbert "  The  rest 

was  lost  in  her  sobbing. 

"  Think,  dear ;  you  know  we  must  stick  to  him. 
There  is  no  end  to  such  a  responsibility.  My  great 
love  for  children  tells  me  that  that  love  should  increase 
as  the  beloved  one  fails." 

"  Oh,  yes,  yes,  you  are  right.  I  should  die  if  he 
were  to  know.  He  would  have  no  pity.  He  could 
never  understand,"  she  cried. 

Elinor  threw  herself  back  in  the  chair  and  lay  in  a 
position  of  extreme  weariness.  Lexham  stood  beside 
her. 

THe  sound  of  a  bell  ringing  in  a  distant  part  of  the 
house  startled  her. 

"What  is  that?"  she  asked. 

"  Oldcastle's  bell.     No  one  for  me,  dear,"  he  said. 

They  listened,  and  heard  the  servant  run  down  the 
stairs  and  open  the  door.  The  indistinct  murmur  of 
voices  reached  them.  Suddenly  Gower  burst  into  the 
room.  Lexham  moved  quickly  away  from  Elinor  to 
meet  him. 

"Ah,  Lexham,  I've  been  looking  for  you,"  Gower 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  377 

said.  "  I  knew  it  would  be  no  use  ringing  your  bell 
to  get  let  in,  so  I  rang  Oldcastle's." 

"  There  was  no  need  to  do  that,"  Lexham  said  in 
a  quiet  tone.  He  saw  that  Gower  was  in  an  angry 
mood,  and  in  the  circumstances  he  felt  that  he  would 
have  to  exert  all  his  tact  and  patience  to  quiet  him  and 
get  him  away.  He  was  quite  aware  that  Gower  would 
see  Elinor  without  her  blouse,  skirt,  and  shoes  if  he 
crossed  the  room.  Lexham  was  determined  he  should 
not  see  her. 

"  There  was  need.  You,  with  your  cursed  friend 
Drake  to  aid  you  in  your  schemes,  make  me  resort  to 
artifices.  Where  is  Mrs.  Laird?"  Gower  demanded. 

"  She  is  not  here,"  Lexham  answered. 

"  She  is  here.  Drake  told  me  that  she  left  here 
some  time  ago.  But  I've  been  to  her  hotel,  and  the 
porter  assured  me  that  she  had  not  returned." 

"  I  don't  care  where  you've  been,  Cyril ;  Mrs.  Laird 
is  not  here." 

"  The  servant  told  me  she  didn't  see  her  leave  the 
house.  Drake  told  me  she  had  been  here  when  I  first 
came  half  an  hour  ago." 

"  Drake  must  have  been  mistaken — — " 

"  He  told  me  he  let  her  out  through  that  way  be- 
cause she  was  afraid." 

"  He  couldn't  have  let  her  out  that  way,  for  the 
passage  to  the  front  door  has  been  partitioned  off." 

"  Then  he,  too,  lied !  She  must  be  here !"  Gower 
tried  to  pass  to  the  bedroom  door. 

"  I  have  not  lied  to  you,"  Lexham  said,  as  he  stood 
in  his  way. 

"  You  have.     You  can't  explain  away  the  letters.     I 


378  MADAME   BOHEMIA 

have  one  in  my  pocket  which  I  found  this  afternoon. 
It  was  written  yesterday.  And  the  cheque  I  saw  on 
your  desk,  what  about  that?  Do  you  think  I  am  a 
fool?  Do  you  think  I  can't  see  through  your  con- 
temptible scheme?" 

"  I  have  done  nothing  contemptible,"  Lexham  said 
in  a  tone  of  warning. 

"  You  have  accepted  money  from  Mrs.  Laird," 
Gower  cried. 

"  It  is  not  true,  Cyril.     You  must  listen  to  me." 

"  Listen  to  you  ?  No !  I'll  not  listen.  You  knew 
all  about  my  affair  with  Mrs.  Laird.  You  knew  it 
was  my  intention  to  marry  her  when  she  got  her  di- 
vorce. You  pretended  to  be  my  friend."  Gower 
again  tried  to  pass  Lexham,  but  he  intercepted  him. 

"  I  have  proved  my  friendship  for  you  many 
times." 

"  Yes,  you  lent  me  money.  That  was  an  easy  thing 
to  do  when  you  were  accepting  such  cheques  as  I  saw 
this  afternoon  from  Mrs.  Laird." 

"  I  have  never  for  my  own  use  accepted  one  penny 
from  her." 

"  Then  for  whose  use  was  it  ?  Bah !  Perhaps  you 
will  want  me  to  believe  that  Miss  Oldcastle  didn't  find 
one  of  Mrs.  Laird's  pins  here." 

"  I'm  sure  she  didn't." 

"  She  did,  and  gave  it  to  her  this  afternoon.  I  and 
the  others  saw  it,"  said  Gower,  as  he  tried  to  get  round 
the  desk. 

"  That  doesn't  justify  your  suspicions.  I  tell  you 
again  that  Mrs.  Laird  is  nothing  to  me,"  Lexham  said, 
defeating  Gower's  new  move. 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  379 

"  No ;  the  little  Oldcastle  has  your  attention 
now " 

"  You  lie,  you  blackguardly  scoundrel !  I'll  wring 
your  lying  throat  if  you  dare  mention  her  name  again !" 

"Didn't  I  see  you  with  her  this  afternoon?  She 
was  crying,  and  you— — " 

"  Silence !"  Lexham  exclaimed,  moving  towards 
him. 

"  No,  not  if  I  never  speak  again.  You  have  ruined 
all  my  prospects.  After  waiting  all  these  years  to  get 
a  chance  to  free  myself  from  the  horrible  surroundings 
of  the  past  ten  years  you  come  and  snatch  away  the 
prize.  You !  Think  of  the  life  I've  had  to  lead  since 
you  have  intimately  known  us !  Rows  about  rent,  not 
enough  food,  and  she  the  subject  of  every  scandal- 
monger's tongue." 

"  That  has  been  your  own  fault.  What  have  you 
ever  done?  No,  no ;  you  almost  tempt  me  to  say " 

"  Say  what  ?  What  can  you  say  ?  You  know  what 
people  say  about  me.  You  ought  to  know,  for  you  are 
the  only  source  it  could  come  from.  No  one  else  bears 
me  any  malice." 

"What  are  you  now  talking  about?  Speak  out!" 
Lexham  cried. 

"  How  we  live  ?  Where  Diva  gets  the  money  from 
to  keep  such  expensive  rooms?" 

"  Well,  where  does  she  get  it  from  ?" 

"  Where  you  get  yours  from.  She  worms  it  out  of 
Mrs.  Sefton  and  you  bleed  Mrs.  Laird.  A  great 
game !" 

Lexham  could  not  help  but  laugh  and  say,  "  Don't 
be  foolish." 


380  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

"  You  may  laugh,  but  I'm  damned  if  I  would  live 
on  charity." 

"  You  have  lived  on  charity,  anyway.  You  don't 
know  what  you're  talking  about.  Ever  since  I've 
known  you  you've  gone  through  life  with  your  eyes 
shut.  Why,  your  very  selfishness  is  enough  to  keep 
you  blind.  How  dare  you  accuse  anyone  of  living 
on  charity?  What  do  you  know  of  a  real  day's  honest 
toil?  Do  you  think  I  don't  know  you?  Why  were 
you  here  searching  for  Mrs.  Laird  ?  Because  you  love 
her?  Not  a  bit  of  it.  You're  afraid  to  let  her  out 
of  your  sight  because  of  your  lust  for  her  gold,  and 
do  you  think  she  doesn't  know  that?  Do  you  think 
she  doesn't  know  that  you  would  let  others  go  on  year 
after  year  housing  you,  feeding  you,  clothing  you, 
submitting  to  your  growling  complaints  and  snarling 
temper  so  long  as  you  might  have  a  little  pocket-money 
and  the  hope  of  some  day  marrying  her — for  what? 
For  the  cursed  money  that  has  been  the  cause  of  all 
this  unhappiness." 

"  You  have  no  right  to  question  my  motive.  I'm 
not  a  hypocrite,  a  canting  dissembler.  And  you're 
not  a  paragon  enough  to  doubt  my  love.  Whatever 
my  motive  is  I've  been  loyal  to  her.  You  can't  say 
So  much.  Why  has  Diva  been  turned  out?" 

"What?" 

Elinor  had  slipped  on  her  blouse  and  shoes. 

"Ah!  now  you  start.  Mrs.  Bettiny  told  me  all 
about  it  in  a  very  few  coarse  words  when  I  went  back 
there  half  an  hour  ago.  Yes,  your  head  falls,  and  well 
it  may.  Damn  you,  curse  you!  Now  have  I  reason 
to  doubt  you?" 


MADAME   BOHEMIA  381 

No,  no  reason.     You  must  believe  me.     Cyril, 


listen " 

"  No.  Mrs.  Laird  is  here  and  I'm  going  to  find 
her." 

"  She  is  not  here.  I  swear  she  is  not." 
Gower  in  trying  to  pass  Lexham  stumbled  against 
the  chair  on  which  was  Gertrude's  cloak,  which  Elinor 
wore  when  she  came  in  with  Lexham.  Then  for  the 
first  time  he  noticed  it.  He  pulled  it  off  the  chair  and 
held  it  up. 

"  Mrs.  Laird's  cloak !"  he  cried,  and  threw  it  down 
near  the  screen.  "  Let  me  pass." 

"  You  will  not  pass  me,  Cyril,  so  don't  begin  to  try." 
"  I'm  going  to  look  again  in  that  room." 
"  You  are  not.     There  is  no  one  in  there." 
At  that  moment  Mrs.  Laird,  tired  out  waiting  for 
so  long,  turned  the  handle  of  the  door  and  began  to 
push  it  open.     Elinor  saw  the  door  move  and  so  did 
Gower,  but  Lexham  was  facing  the  latter  and  did  not 
see  what  had  happened. 

"  She  is  in  there !"  Gower  yelled.  Mrs.  Laird  heard 
his  voice  and  closed  the  door. 

Then  Gower  sprang  at  Lexham  and  clutched  him 
by  the  throat,  but  the  latter  caught  the  infuriated  fellow 
round  the  waist  and  slowly  pulled  him  into  a  tighten- 
ing grasp  which  made  him  almost  yell  with  pain. 
Gower  struck  wildly  at  Lexham,  but  they  were  too  close 
for  effective  blows.  Pressing  him  tightly  against  his 
chest,  Lexham  used  his  other  hand  to  make  Gower 
relax  the  grip  he  had  upon  his  throat.  Once  Lexham 
-lost  his  footing  and  almost  fell.  Dexterously  he  re- 
covered himself,  but  he  lost  the  powerful  hold  he  had 


382  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

had  round  Gower's  body.  The  latter  felt  the  tension 
of  Lexham's  arm  slackening,  and  this  relief  encouraged 
him  to  renew  his  exertions.  Again  Lexham  slipped  on 
the  smooth  carpet  and  Gower  threw  him,  as  he  swayed, 
over  on  to  the  desk.  Lexham  lay  on  the  broad  of  his 
back,  and  Gower  bent  over  him  and  held  him  down 
by  the  throat.  Lexham's  right  arm  hung  down  the 
side  of  the  desk,  but  with  his  left  he  had  clutched  a 
firm  grasp  of  Gower  by  the  neck.  And  there  they 
struggled. 

Neither  saw  Elinor  rise  and  glide  to  the  bedroom 
door,  from  which  she  had  not  taken  her  eyes  since 
she  saw  it  pushed  gently  open.  Now  she  flung  it 
slightly  ajar,  and  saw  Gertrude  in  an  attitude  of  ab- 
ject fear.  Elinor  slipped  behind  the  open  door. 

"  Elinor,  save  me,  save  me !"  Gertrude  cried,  pite- 
ously. 

"  Save  you,  you  deceitful  wretch !"  Elinor  whis- 
pered quickly,  angrily. 

"  Lexham  doesn't  know  I'm  here.  I  hid  from 
Cyril,"  Gertrude  cried. 

Elinor  closed  the  door. 

Gower  had  freed  his  right  arm,  and  mad  with  fury 
he  grasped  a  large  brass  candlestick  and  swung  it  down. 
Lexham  jerked  his  head  aside  and  received  the  blow 
full  on  the  clavicle.  Elinor  turned  from  the  door  just 
as  the  blow  fell. 

Suddenly  Alice  was  heard  descending  the  stairs  cry- 
ing, "Gilbert,  Gilbert!" 

Lexham  rolled  off  the  edge  of  the  desk  and  lay  pros- 
trate. Gower  turned,  and  was  face  to  face  with  Eli- 
nor. 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  383 

"You!"  he  cried  in  a  hoarse  voice,  and  with  loath- 
ing he  shrank  from  her  and  staggered  out  of  the 
room. 

"  Gilbert,  Gilbert,  he  is  dying !  He  wants  you !" 
Alice  called,  as  she  ran  into  the  room.  Lexham  was 
on  the  floor  trying  to  rise.  She  saw  him,  gave  a  stifled 
scream,  and  hastened  to  him.  "  Gilbert,  my  love,  my 
love,  I  am  alone,  alone !"  she  cried,  as  she  wound  her 
arms  about  him  and  raised  his  head. 


CHAPTER    XXIII 

ALICE  and  Elinor  assisted  Lexham  to  the  lounge. 
The  blow  had  quite  dazed  him,  and  now  he  began  to 
collect  his  wits  he  was  conscious  of  the  intense  pain 
in  his  shoulder.  He,  however,  made  light  of  it  when 
he  saw  Elinor's  serious  face  and  Alice's  grieved  ex- 
pression. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Alice?"  he  asked. 

"  Oh,  Gilbert,  you  have  been  hurt !  What  shall  I 
do?  You  and  poor  grandfather!"  Alice  stammered 
in  a  tired  voice. 

"Your  grandfather!  What  about  him?"  Lexham 
inquired,  as  he  rose  with  difficulty. 

"  I'm  afraid,  Gilbert.  He  sent  me  down  for  you. 
Dick  has  not  come  back  with  the  doctor.  Grandfather 
is  so  ill.  He  has  been  asking  for  you,"  she  said. 

"  Do  you  think  you  can  get  upstairs  ?"  Elinor 
asked. 

"  Yes ;  come,  Alice.  Let  us  go.  Wait,  Elinor,  will 
you  ?"  he  said. 

Her  heart  softened  as  she  saw  the  painful  effort 
he  made  to  go  with  Alice.  She  had  seen  the  blow 
fall,  and  though  at  that  moment  she  believed  almost 
all  Gower's  accusations,  still,  she  felt  he  was  very  dear 
to  her,  though  Mrs.  Laird  was  in  hiding  in  his  bedroom 
and  he  had,  as  she  thought,  so  cruelly  deceived  her. 
After  Lexham  and  Alice  were  gone  upstairs  she  closed 
the  door,  and  then  went  to  the  bedroom  and  called  Ger- 
trude out. 
384 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  385 

"Oh,  Elinor,  why  did  you  call  me  a  deceitful 
^wretch?"  she  cried,  as  she  came  in. 

"  Why  ?  Could  you  hear  what  was  said  in  this 
room  ?" 

"  Yes — no ;  nothing  distinctly,"  Gertrude  answered. 

"  Cyril  and  Gilbert  fighting  like  brutes.  And  what 
about,  do  you  think?  You!"  Elinor  exclaimed,  an- 
grily. 

"  Yes,  I  know ;  but,  Elinor " 

"  You  have  deceived  us  all.  Wasn't  it  bad  enough 
to  spoil  Cyril  ?  Of  what  use  will  he  ever  be  after  this  ? 
Didn't  I  tell  you " 

"  No,  no,  let  me  speak.  I  have  not  deceived  you. 
I  came  to  ask  Mr.  Lexham  about  the  scene  at  your 
rooms.  I  did,  Elinor,  believe  me.  I  was  so  ashamed 
when  I  had  to  leave  you  because  auntie  was  so  nervous. 
I  went  back  to  your  place  after  I  took  auntie  to  the 
hotel.  You  were  gone,  and  then  I  came  here  to  ask  him 
where  I  could  find  you.  That  is  all,  Elinor,  that  is  all." 

"Do  you  know  that  Cyril  nearly  killed  Gilbert?" 
Elinor  said. 

"  Oh,  I  knew  they  would  quarrel !  I  didn't  want 
them  to  meet.  Cyril  accused  me  of  an  intrigue  with 
Lexham,  and  he  thinks " 

"  I  know  what  he  thinks !"   Elinor  interposed. 

"  But  you  don't  believe  that " 

"  He  said  that  I  got  my  money  from  Mrs.  Sefton 
and  that  Lexham  got  his  from  you." 

"  It  is  not  true,"  Gertrude  declared. 

"  I  know  it  is  not  true  in  my  case." 

"  Nor  in  Lexham's.  Elinor,  you  have  not  believed 
me." 

25 


386  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

"  I  did  not  believe  a  word  Cyril  said  till  I  saw  that 
door  pushed  open.  Then  I  forgot  everything  but  you. 
I  did  not  see  you  when  I  saw  the  door  move,  but  I  felt 
sure  I  knew  you  were  hiding  in  there." 

"  Drake  put  me  in  there." 

"  Drake,  Drake !  It  always  is  Drake !"  Elinor  ex- 
claimed. "  He  is  everywhere,  like  a  mocking  spirit, 
laughing  at  us  poor  fools." 

"  When  I  reached  here  Drake  was  alone,"  Gertrude 
said.  "  Someone  rang  the  bell,  and  Drake  looked 
through  the  window  and  saw  Cyril  at  the  door.  After 
the  scenes  with  him  yesterday  and  to-day  I  had 
good  reason  to  avoid  meeting  him  again.  Look!" 
Gertrude  unbuttoned  her  wristband  and  pulled  up 
her  sleeve.  "  See  these  bruises.  The  marks  of 
his  cruel  hands.  When  I  told  him  yesterday  that  I 
was  going  away  with  auntie  he  behaved  like  a  mad- 
man." 

"  I'm  sorry,  but  he  has  left  other  marks  on  me," 
Elinor  said,  bitterly. 

"  Oh,  Elinor,  if  you  only  knew  how  my  heart  aches 
for  you!"  Gertrude  said.  "What  can  I  do?  What 
reparation  for  all  the  trouble  I've  caused?  When  I 
heard  that  old  man  denounce  you  to-day  I  longed  to 
throw  my  arms  around  you  and  tell  them  all  I  didn't 
believe  a  word  of  what  was  said.  But  auntie!  I 
couldn't  let  her  go  away  alone." 

"  Why,  why  should  you  feel  for  me?"  Elinor  asked 
in  a  strange  tone. 

Gertrude  .looked  at  her  and  smiled  sadly  as  she 
said, — 

"  Haven't  we  both  loved  the  same  ingrate  ?" 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  387 

"  Gertrude !"  Elinor  cried  in  a  tone  of  despair  and 
opened  wide  her  arms  for  the  younger  woman.  A 
surge  of  sympathy,  like  one  electric  current,  passed 
through  their  hearts  and  united  them  in  a  sincere  em- 
brace. 

"  How  I  wish  I  could  stay  in  New  York  with  you ! 
Everything  you  do  draws  me  closer  to  you.  Elinor, 
you  are  the  only  real  woman  I  have  ever  met.  And 
how  like  you,  when  you  suspected  me,  when  everything 
was  black  against  me,  when  you  found  me  there,  to  save 
me,  hide  me  from  Cyril!" 

"Ah,  you  don't  know  me.  You  may  think  I  do 
Strange  things,  but  in  reality  I  am  no  different  than 
other  women.  I'm  just  as  prone  to  suspect  and  nag. 
Don't  think  of  me  as  a  Pharisee.  My  mistakes  have 
been  many,  and  now  I  see  how  they  have  been  made. 
But  it's  all  wrong.  We  hunger  and  we  eat,  we  thirst 
and  we  drink,  we  must  wear  clothes,  have  a  religion, 
be  respectable,  all  these  trifles  the  world  demands  of 
us,  but  love — that's  nothing.  Have  you  ever  loved? 
No,  I  do  not  mean  to  wound  you,  Gertrude.  You 
do  not  understand.  I  forgot.  I  am  older  than 
you.  It  makes  all  the  difference  at  my  time  of 
life." 

Lexham  came  in.  He  looked  so  careworn  and  weak 
that  Elinor  could  not  suppress  an  ejaculation  of  de- 
spair. 

"  Elinor,  Mrs.  Laird  here!"  He  exclaimed  in  sur- 
prise. • 

"  Yes.  she  was  in  there,  in  your  bedroom ;  but  you 
didn't  know  it,  did  you?"  Elinor  asked  in  a  gentle, 
pleading  way. 


388  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

"  No,  no !"  Lexham  said  in  a  tone  of  bewilder- 
ment. 

"  I  came  to  see  you  earlier  in  the  evening.  I  was 
afraid  to  meet  Cyril,  and  Mr.  Drake  hid  me  in  there 
from  him." 

"  You  are  in  pain,  Gilbert !"   Elinor  cried. 

''  Yes ;  but  it's  nothing.  Elinor,  that  old  man  is  in 
a  very  serious  condition.  Something  must  be  done. 
I  know  he  has  had  a  weak  heart,  and  I'm  sure  he  cannot 
live  long  if  he  continues  to  rave  so  wildly  about  his 
son's  death,"  Lexham  said. 

"And  I'm  helpless,  helpless.  Oh,  Gilbert,  what  can 
I  do?"  Elinor  cried  in  great  distress. 

"  I've  tried  to  soothe  him.  He  was  a  little  quieter 
when  I  left  him.  Alice  told  me  she  had  sent  Drake 
for  a  doctor.  Wait,  dear.  Hush!  Ssh!" 

"  Mr.  Lexham,  I  must  go,"  Gertrude  said ;  "  my 
auntie  will  be  anxious.  I  shan't  see  you  again,  per- 
haps, for  a  long  time." 

"  What  am  I  to  do  with  the  money  ?"  Lexham 
asked. 

"Ah,  the  money !"  Elinor  exclaimed.  "  Gilbert,  tell 
me  what  the  money  was  for.  I  can  think  of  nothing 
but  Cyril's  words,  '  She  worms  it  out  of  Mrs.  Sefton 
and  you  bleed  Mrs.  Laird.'  Do,  do,  relieve  my  mind. 
I  shall  go  mad  if  those  words  are  not  erased  from  my 
brain.  I  can  think  of  nothing  else.  Their  din,  din, 
din,  makes  me  forget  the  old  man,  makes  me  forget — 
you,  Gilbert !" 

"  Elinor,  dear "  he  stopped  and  turned  to  Mrs. 

Laird.  "  Let  me  tell  her."  Gertrude  nodded  her  head 
in  assent.  "  You  know  Mrs.  Laird  is  going  away  and 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  389 

she  did  not  wish  to  let  Cyril  know  that  she  was  resolved 
never  to  see  him  again." 

"  She  told  me  that;  I  know;  well,  well?"  she  said, 
impatiently. 

"  Elinor,  I  asked  Mr.  Lexham  to  give  Cyril  the 
money  so  that  he  could  pay  his  debts  and  have  some 
money  for  an  European  trip,"  Gertrude  timidly  ex- 
plained. 

"  What !     Pay  him  for "  Elinor  cried  out. 

"  No,  no,  Elinor.  Mrs.  Laird  wants  him  to  find  a 
producer  for  his  opera,"  Lexham  interposed. 

"A  gift !  A  patronising  bribe  to  heal  his  wounded 
pride !  And  you  lent  yourself  to  such  a  scheme  ?  Has 
he  fallen  so  low?  Send  for  him.  Offer  it  to  him.  If 
he  takes  it  then  good-bye  everything!"  Elinor  ex- 
claimed in  staccato  tones  of  anger  and  revulsion.  If 
he  had  sunk  to  this  then  indeed  her  life  had  been 
wasted.  It  was  curious  to  see  how  her  affection,  per- 
sisting in  spite  of  everything,  made  her  pride  so  sud- 
denly and  easily  wounded  on  his  behalf.  The  world 
was  a  blank  if  she  could  not  regenerate  the  life  she" 
had  adopted. 

"  Mrs.  Laird's  intention  was,  I  think,  a  noble  one, 
Elinor,"  Lexham  said  in  a  grieved  voice.  "  I'm  sorry 
you're  offended." 

"  So  am  I,  Elinor,  very,  very  sorry,"  Gertrude  said. 
"  Cyril  said  he  did  better  work  under  my  influence, 
and " 

"  Your  influence !"    Elinor  cried. 

"  Wait,  dear.  He  made  me  believe  that  I  urged 
him  to  persevere.  Wait,  dear.  I  saw  him  idle  away 
the  precious  time,  month  after  month,  nothing  accom- 


390  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

plished.  All  his  talent  wasted.  When  his  first  opera 
failed,  I  saw  the  reason  why  it  failed.  Light  music 
was  not  his  forte.  Then  I  persuaded,  promised,  did 
all  a  woman  could  do  to  make  him  set  to  work  again, 
and  then  when  he  had  finished  his  work  I  thought  it 
was  only  just  to  help  him  to  get  it  produced." 

"  Oh !  And  after  all  my  years  of — oh,  the  wretch ! 
For  me  nothing.  No  return  for  all  my  love.  And 
you  come,  you,  oh!  No,  no,  you  can't  understand. 
This  is  monstrous.  What  is  gratitude?  All  done  for 
you?" 

She  sank  down  on  the  lounge  and  sobbed  so  bitterly 
that  Lexham  and  Gertrude  looked  at  each  other  in 
alarm.  Gertrude  went  to  her,  kneeled  down,  and1 
tried  to  soothe  he£. 

"No,  don't  do  that,"  Elinor  said;  "it  hurts  ter- 
ribly. Send  for  him,  Gilbert.  Let  it  end.  Send  for 
him." 

"  Elinor,"  Gertrude  cried,  "  I  never  thought  to 
wound  you." 

"  No,  no,  forgive  me  my  harsh  words.  But  every- 
thing seems  very  cruel.  Something  is  crushing  me. 
Gilbert,  is  it  my  fault?"  Elinor  asked  in  a  startled 
tone.  "Have  I  failed?" 

He  was  silent,  still  he  was  conscious  of  something 
neglected.  That,  perhaps,  he  had  been  indirectly  the 
cause  of  many  misunderstandings  which  had  arisen 
since  Elinor  and  he  had  been  intimate. 

"  Have  I  ?"    she  cried,  stung  by  his  silence. 

"  I  think  we  have  been  to  blame,"  he  said,  gently. 

"  What !  We  have  been  selfish  ?  Do  you  mean  he 
has  been  forgotten?" 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  391 

"  Yes.     But  let  me  take  the  blame." 

"  No,  no.  Gertrude,  write  to  him.  Ask  him  to 
come  here.  This  shall  be  settled.  At  once.  Write !" 
she  said  in  a  tone  of  command. 

"  But  I "  Gertrude  began,  hesitatingly.  She 

looked  at  Lexham,  and  said,  "  I  can't  see  him 
again." 

"  No,  of  course  not,"  Elinor  said,  bitterly,  "  but  your 
influence.  He  may  not  come  for  us.  But  a  note  from 
you  should  bring  him  here.  Just  ask  him  to  come. 
That  will  be  enough." 

Gertrude  sat  down  and  wrote  a  brief  note. 

"  Elinor,  is  it  wise  to  see  him  to-night  ?"  Lexham 
asked. 

"  Wise  ?  oh,  yes ;  I  cannot  wait  now.  It  should 
have  been  done  long  ago,"  she  said,  sadly.  "  He  must 
be  tired  waiting." 

Lexham  took  the  note  from  Gertrude. 

"  I  shall  pass  a  messenger  office  on  my  way  to  the 
hotel,"  she  said,  as  she  prepared  to  leave  the  room. 

"  Yes.  please  send  it,"  Elinor  said. 

"  Good-bye,"  Gertrude  muttered ;  "  forget  me  till 
you  can  think  well  of  me,  Elinor." 

"  We  should  have  been  loving  sisters,  Gertrude,  you 
and  I.  Good-bye."  Elinor  took  Gertrude's  hand  and 
clasped  it  to  her  breast.  "  Good-bye.  And  tell  Mrs. 
Sefton  that  I'm  not  the  guilty  wretch  that  poor  old 
man  thinks  I  am." 

"  I  know  you  are  not.  Auntie  loves  you."  Ger- 
trude turned  away.  She  went  to  Lexham,  and  as  she 
took  the  note  from  him,  she  said,  "  I  think  Elinor  will 
be  happier  when  I  am  gone." 


392  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

When  they  were  alone,  Lexham  went  to  Elinor  and 
said, — 

"  Must  I  offer  him  the  money?" 

"  Yes,  yes.  The  money.  Let  him  have  it.  Gilbert, 
we  were  happy!  very  happy  till  the  money  came !"  she 
cried.  '  You  worm  it  out  of  Mrs.  Sefton  and  Lex- 
ham  bleeds  Mrs.  Laird.' ' 

"  Hush,  dear,  think  no  more  of  that  dreadful " 

Lexham  began. 

"  He  made  me  almost  believe  it.  Why  did  you  let 
me  hear  all  that,  all  he  said  ?" 

"  I  did  not  want  him  to  see  you,"  he  said. 

"  See  me !  What  if  he  had  seen  me  ?  He  knows. 
He  knows.  He  may  not  come  here.  What  then? 
Oh,  yes,  the  money.  He  will  come." 

"  But  he  doesn't  know  about  the  money,"  Lexham 
remarked. 

"Ah,  but  her  influence !  He  will  come.  What  shall 
I  do  if  he  sneers  at  me?"  she  moaned. 

"  He  will  not  do  that,"  said  Lexham,  raising  his 
arm  in  anger,  and  then  letting  it  fall  suddenly  as  he 
felt  the  pain. 

"  He  hurt  you.  Oh,  Gilbert,  didn't  I  bring  you 
enough  suffering?  And  he  might  have  killed  you  be- 
cause of  Gertrude.  Does  he  love  her  ?  What  else  did 
he  say?"  she  muttered. 

"  Oh,  nothing,  nothing.  Let  us  not  think  of  it," 
Lexham  cried. 

"  We  must  think  of  it,"  she  said ;  "  we  must  think 
of  everything  to-night.  The  little  Oldcastle,"  she  mur- 
mured in  a  curious,  slow  tone. 

"  No,   no,   Elinor,   not  to-night.      Let   us   forget. 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  393 

Cyril  did  not  know  what  he  was  saying.  Why  take 
notice  of  what  was  said  by  an  enraged  man?  There 
are  other  things  to  think  of  if  you  will  persist.  But, 
no,  you  are  overwrought,  Elinor." 

" '  Gilbert,  my  love,  my  love/  that  was  what  she 
said.  Poor  little  thing,"  Elinor  said  in  a  quiet  tone, 
in  which  a  certain  note  of  sympathy  surprised  Lex- 
ham.  "  How  old  is  she,  Gilbert?"  she  asked. 

"  Alice  ?    About  nineteen,  I  think,"  he  answered. 

"  Nineteen !  At  that  age  I  was  a  wife.  A  drunken 
brute's  victim.  And  she  loves  you.  Well,  that 
is  quite  natural.  But  you,  Gilbert,  what  about 
you?" 

"Can  you  ask?"  he  cried  in  a  grieved  tone.  "Have 
you  believed  that?  After  these  three  years  you  have 
learned  only  to  doubt  me.  Gower  lied !  And  it  was 
for  your  sake  I  contained  myself  when  he  spoke  of 
her.  I  learned  to-day  from  her  grandfather  what  you 
know  now.  To-day.  Yes.  She  was  crying  to-day 
in  your  rooms.  Do  you  know  why  she  was  in  tears? 
I  told  her  I  was  going  away,  that  I  should  have  to  give 
up  these  rooms.  But  not  a  word  of  what  Cyril  im- 
plied has  passed  between  Alice  and  me." 

She  threw  her  arms  about  him,  and  said, — 

"  Ah,  Gilbert,  you  do  love  me  ?  I  feel  such  a  miser- 
able thing.  Do  you  know  how  much  I  need  your 
love?" 

Suddenly  she  turned  away  from  him  and  beat  her 
hands  in  despair. 

"Oh,  what  is  it?  What  is  it?  I  feel  that  some- 
thing terrible  has  happened,  I  feel  as  if  the  crime  of 
that  man's  death  were  weighing  upon  me.  It  is  crush- 


394  MADAME    BOHEMIA1 

ing  me.  Why,  she  is  his  child?  His  child,  Gilbert. 
Little  Alice's  father  shot  himself  at  my — oh!" 

Drake  came  in.     He  was  astonished  to  see  Elinor. 

"  Hullo,  Lexham,"  he  said,  after  his  surprise,  "  the 
doctor  has  just  gone  up.  He  wants  to  see  you." 

"  How  is  Oldcastle  ?"  Lexham  asked. 

"  I  don't  know.  Haven't  been  upstairs.  The  doc- 
tor has  come  from  a  birth.  I  wonder  if " 

"  Hush,  Dick !     I'll  go  up,  Elinor,"  Lexham  said. 

"  Yes,  yes,  go !"  she  said.  "  He  mustn't  die,  not 
yet,  Gilbert." 

Lexham  left  the  room,  and  Drake  stood  listening 
to  his  footsteps  on  the  stairs.  Elinor  turned,  and 
started  on  seeing  Drake.  She  thought  he,  too,  had 
left  the  room.  But  for  that  moment  in  the  afternoon 
when  Elinor  went  into  Lexham's  room  and  saw  Drake 
watching  her  empty  the  jewels  out  of  her  bag  she 
had  not  been  alone  with  him  for  nearly  eighteen 
years. 

"  Well,  Drake,"  said  Elinor  in  a  tone  of  suppressed 
emotion.  "  We  have  not  spoken  together  for  a  good 
many  years.  Why  did  you  call  me  my  lady  of  many 
names  ?" 

"  Somehow  you  then  looked  younger.  More  like 
Signora  Valenza  than  Mrs.  Kembleton,"  Drake  said, 
with  a  sly  smile. 

"Did  you  tell  Mr.  Oldcastle  that  I  was  Va- 
lenza?" 

"  Yes.  Let  it  out  before  I  realised  what  I  had  done. 
But  I  feel  better  since  letting  it  out.  You  see,  there 
has  been  something  wrong  with  me.  You  know  we  all 
went  wrong  after  he  got  through  with  us.  Well,  I 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  395 

don't  know,  but  there  are  some  things  I  can't  quite 
connect  yet.  I  did  you  a  few  good  turns  in  the  old 
days,  didn't  I?" 

"  Yes,  Drake,  you  did.  You  saved  me  many  a  time 
from  that  man's  cruelty.  You  were  constantly  saving 
little  Cyril  from  my  husband,"  Elinor  said. 

"  Yes.  He  was  a  hard  customer  to  deal  with." 
Drake  laughed  in  a  quiet  way.  "  But  I  got  something 
out  of  him.  He  was  the  subject  of  my  short  story. 
Never  was  such  a  character  to  handle.  He  was  just 
my  idea  of  the  incarnation  of  Hell.  I'm  sorry  he  died. 
It  was  too  easy  for  him." 

"  Drake,  do  you  remember  much  about  that  time  in 
Monte  Carlo?" 

"  Well,  sometimes  I  remember  so  much  that  I'd  give 
anything  to  forget  it  all,  then  there  have  been  times 
when  I've  forgotten,  aye,  even  a  name  that  I  have'  gone 
nearly  mad  in  trying  to  recall.  But  it  doesn't  matter 
now,"  he  said,  and  chuckled. 

"  Did  you  know  that  the  man  who  shot  himself  was 
Mr.  Oldcastle's  son?"  Elinor  asked  in  a  trembling 
voice. 

"  Not  till  to-day.  Just  think,  I've  been  in  this  house 
more  than  a  year  and  that  didn't  occur  to  me  till  to- 
day. You  should  have  seen  the  old  man  when  I  let 
out  that  you  were  Valenza."  This  he  said  as  if  he 
were  recounting  a  great  joke.  His  eyes  sparkled  from 
excitement  and  uncanny  joy.  "  But  poor  little  Alice," 
he  cried  in  a  sudden  change  of  tone,  "  what  will  she 
do  wfien  the  old  man  goes  to  find  her  father  ?  I  never 
thought  of  that  before."  Slowly  he  rubbed  his  hand 
across  his  brow,  and  then  smiling  sadly  he  said,  "  Well, 


396  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

Lexham    will    look    after    Alice.      Yes,    that's    all 
right." 

"  Drake,  what  are  you  saying  ?"  Elinor  cried. 

"  Oh,  nothing ;  you  don't  understand.  That  is 
another  matter,"  he  said  in  a  strange  tone,  as  he  seemed 
to  leer  at  her. 

Alice  came  running  into  the  room.  A  piece  of  paper 
fluttered  in  her  hand. 

"  Dick,  run  to  the  chemist  with  this  prescription. 
Here  is  the  money!"  she  cried. 

He  clapped  on  his  hat  and  ran  from  the  room. 

"Is  your  grandfather  any  better?"  Elinor  asked 
after  a  pause. 

"  I  don't  know.  The  doctor  told  me  to  wait  Here 
till  Dick  returned  with  the  medicine,"  Alice  said. 

"Do  you  mind  waiting  here  with  me?"  Elinor's 
voice  was  soft. 

"  No,  Mrs.  Kembleton,"  Alice  answered.  She  sat 
down  near  the  desk. 

"  You  heard  what  your  grandfather  said  of  me?" 

"  Yes,  yes,  but " 

"  But  you  don't  believe  it  ?  Your  grandfather  was 
mistaken !" 

'  Yes.    He  must  be  mistaken.    I'm  so  sorry." 

Elinor  went  to  her  and  kneeled  down  beside  her. 

"Alice,  tell  me ;  I  heard  what  you  said  when  you  ran 
to  Mr.  Lexham, — when  he  was  unconscious, — you  were 
so  troubled  you  did  not  know  your  tender  heart  rose 
to  your  lips.  You  called  him  your  love.  No,  no, 
Alice,  tell  me,  do  you  love  him?" 

"  Yes,  I  can  tell  you  now,"  she  replied,  after  some 
hesitation. 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  397 

"Why  now?"  Elinor  asked.  Her  changed  tone 
startled  Alice. 

"  Oh,  before  I  was  so  wicked.  I  thought  there  was 
something  wrong.  I  had  heard  grandfather  and  Mr. 
Blackston  speak  of  you.  I'm  sure  they  don't  like  you. 
Ah,  but  that  is  because  they  don't  know  you  as  I  do," 
Alice  said,  sweetly. 

"And  your  grandfather  knows  you  love  Mr.  Lex- 
ham?" 

"  Yes,  I  think  he  does,"  she  said  in  a  sad  tone. 

"  Alice,  does  Mr.  Lexham  know  you  love  him  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  He  has  always  called  me  *  little 
sister.' " 

"  Has  he  ever  said  anything  to  you — anything  about 
love?" 

"  No,  never.  Is  it  all  wrong?  You  don't  know  how 
long  I've  loved  him.  So  long.  It  is  dreadful  now 
grandfather  knows.  It  was  so  sweet  before.  Some- 
times I  felt  as  if  my  heart  would  burst,  and  then  I 
would  not  come  in  when  he  was  here.  Oh,  how  I 
love  this  room!  And  he  is  going  to  leave  us.  Ah! 
you  don't  know  what  it  is  to  be  alone.  Poor  dear 
grandfather  for  years  and  years  seemed  to  forget  my 
existence.  Oh,  what  a  relief  it  is  to  talk  to  you !" 

"Why,  Alice,  why  a  relief?" 

"  Ah,  you  think  I  don't  know.  How  wicked  I  was ! 
Do  you  know,  I  feel  so  wise,  and  yet  I  know  I'm  only 
a  silly  girl.  But  Dick  was  so  good  to  tell  me." 

"Tell  you  what,  Alice?"  Elinor  asked,  persua- 
sively. 

"All  that  you  did  for  Mr.  Lexham.  How  you 
helped  him  to  find  a  publisher,  Mr.  Blackston,  and 


398  MADAME    BOHEMIA' 

how  you  encouraged  him  in  his  work.  Yes,  Dick  told 
me  all  about  it.  How  good  you  have  been  to  him. 
Oh,  you  don't  know  how  lonely  he  was !  He  used  to 
sit  here  hour  after  hour  writing,  writing, — forgetting 
that  he  needed  food.  Grandfather  once  said  he  wrote 
in  blood,  that  it  was  not  ink  on  his  pen.  Then  at 
night  you  would  come.  Ah!  many  a  time  I've  gone 
to  bed  quite  happy  knowing  you  were  down  here  with 
him.  I  thought  at  first  that  he  was  just  as  lonely  as 
I  was." 

Elinor  rose  and  walked  away  to  a  corner  of  the  room. 

Drake  came  back  with  the  medicine. 

"  Here  it  is,  Alice,"  he  said.     "  Gower  is  outside." 

"  Tell  him  to  come  in,"  Elinor  said. 

Drake  and  Alice  left  the  room  and  Gower  entered. 
He  was  changed.  His  bloodshot  eyes  and  pale  face 
told  a  great  deal  more  than  any  expressions  of  sorrow 
he  could  utter.  He  walked  slowly  into  the  room. 
Elinor  went  to  him  before  he  was  aware  of  her  pres- 
ence. He  started  and  looked  strangely  at  her. 

"  Lexham,"  he  cried  in  a  hoarse  voice,  "  Lexham, 
did  I  hurt  him?" 

"  Yes,  you  hurt  him,"  she  said  in  a  tone  of  great 
bitterness. 

"  Badly  ?  Diva,  I  didn't  know  what  I  was  doing. 
I  was  mad  with  rage,"  he  said.  "  Tell  me,  he  is  not 
Seriously " 

"  Pooh !     Lexham  is  all  right,"  she  muttered. 

"  But  Drake  told  me  he  had  been  for  a  doctor.  That 
he  was  dying,"  he  cried. 

"  So  he  has  been  for  a  doctor,  but  not  for  Lex- 
ham." 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  399 

"Oh,  thank  heaven!"  Gower  sank  in  a  chair  and 
wiped  the  sweat  off  his  brow.  He  trembled. 

"  Where  is  Mrs.  Laird  ?"  he  asked  in  a  changed  tone, 
which  expressed  his  relief. 

"  Oh,  she  is  gone,  Cyril.  Gone !  I  shall  never  worm 
more  out  of  Mrs.  Sefton  and  Lexham  will  never  again 
bleed  Mrs.  Laird." 

"  What !  What  are  you  talking  about  ?"  he  cried 
out  in  surprise. 

"  I  was  thinking  of  what  you  said  to  Lexham," 
she  said. 

"  He  has  told  you  ?"  Gower  asked  in  a  subdued 
tone. 

"  No,  there  was  no  need.     I  heard  all  you  said." 

"  You  heard  ?"     He  was  embarrassed,  agitated. 

"  Every  word.  I  sat  in  that  chair  all  the  time  you 
and  he  were  shouting,"  Elinor  said.  She  saw  he  was 
half-ashamed. 

"  You  didn't.     You  were  in  that  room,"  he  cried. 

"  No ;  Mrs.  Laird  was  in  that  room.  But  Lexham 
didn't  know  she  was  there,"  she  said. 

"  But  I  saw  you  come  from  that  room." 

"  Yes,  I  came  from  there  to  save  her  from  perhaps 
worse  than  Lexham  got,"  Elinor  said,  bitterly. 

"  So  you're  against  me,  are  you  ?  You're  all  against 
me!" 

"Do  you  know  what  day  this  is?"  she  asked  in  a 
quieter  tone. 

"  Yes,  and  it  is  not  likely  that  I  shall  soon  for- 
get it." 

"  But  do  you  remember  a  day  many  years  ago  when 
I  took  a  little  boy  away  from  his  home  in  Kent?  A 


400  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

little  boy  I  adopted?"  Gower  started,  but  he  could 
not  raise  his  head.  He  could  not  look  her  straight  in 
the  face. 

Lexham  came  down  the  stairs  with  brighter  steps. 
When  he  came  into  the  room  Elinor  went  to  him  and 
said,  "How  is  he?" 

"A  little  better.  But  the  doctor  says  he  will  not 
really  recover." 

"  Lexham,"  Gower  began,  "  I'm  sorry  I  lost  my 
temper " 

"  That  is  all  right,"  Lexham  interposed.  "  I  have 
something  here  to  give  you.  Three  thousand  dollars. 
But  there  is  a  condition  which  must  be  observed.  If 
you  accept  this  money  you  must  first  pay  all  your  debts. 
The  balance  is  to  be  spent  on  a  trip  to  Europe,  where 
you  must  try  to  find  a  producer  for  the  opera  you  have 
just  completed.  Is  it  agreed?" 

Gower  was  nonplussed.  He  could  hardly  realise  all 
that  Lexham  said. 

"  Well,  Lexham,  I  don't  know  what  to  say,"  Gower 
muttered. 

"  You  want  to  take  your  opera  to  Paris  or  Berlin, 
don't  you?" 

"  Yes,  but  after  the  way  I've  treated  you." 

"That  is  past.  Don't  think  of  it,"  Lexham 
said. 

"  But  I  can  hardly  realise  your  goodness.  Besides, 
I  owe  you  so  much  money;  as  it  is  I  shall  never  be 
able  to  repay  you." 

"  Say  nothing  about  that.  Will  you  come  here  to- 
morrow morning  at  nine  o'clock,  when  we  can  settle 
the  matter?" 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  401 

"Nine  o'clock!  Isn't  that  rather  early?"  Gower 
Said,  in  a  tone  which  implied  that  the  thought  of  rising 
so  early  made  him  tired. 

"  I  shall  be  very  busy  to-morrow.  Come  at  nine," 
Lexham  said,  curtly. 

"  Well,  all  right.     But  when  am  I  to  sail?" 

"  As  soon  as  you  like." 

"Oh!"  He  could  not  conceal  his  joy.  "Diva," 
he  cried,  "  what  luck,  isn't  it  ?  At  last,  after  all  these 
years !  Lexham,  it  is  good  of  you.  Think  of  it !  A 
trip  to  Europe." 

He  strutted  about  the  room,  delighted  at  the  pros- 
pect of  his  good  fortune.  He  was  already  conjuring 
up  pleasures  and  hopes  of  success.  Elinor's  heart 
sank  and  Lexham's  face  betrayed  an  expression  of  dis- 
gust. 

"  I  can't  let  him  think  that  the  money  comes  from 
me,"  Lexham  said  in  an  undertone  to  Elinor. 

"  Does  it  matter  ?"  she  asked.  "  He  has  forgotten 
her." 

Gower  took  up  his  hat  and  said,  "Well,  Lexham, 
I'll  see  you  here  to-morrow  morning  about  nine 
o'clock." 

"  Wait,  Cyril,"  Elinor  said,  "  don't  be  in  a  hurry 
to-night.  Did  you  come  here  to  apologise  to  Lex- 
ham?" 

'  Yes,  and "  Gower  began  to  stammer. 

"And  what?     To  see  Mrs.  Laird?" 

"  Well,  I  got  a  note  from  her.     I  thought " 

'''  You  thought  to  find  her  here.  You  did  not  come 
for  any  other  purpose.  Well,  you  will  never  see  her 
again.  She  has  gone  for  good.  Yes,  for  good.  Now 

26 


402  MADAME   BOHEMIA 

listen,  Cyril.  Many  things  have  occurred  to-day, — 
matters  which  concern  you  and  me." 

"  I  don't  think  it's  nice  of  you  to  mention  this  before 
Lexham." 

"  It  doesn't  matter  what  you  think  on  that  point. 
Drake  told  you  he  had  been  for  a  doctor, — that  some- 
one was  dying.  Do  you  know  who  is  dying?"  • 

"  No,  I  don't.  You  know  I  don't  like  lugubri- 
ous  "  he  began  to  whine. 

"  Dldcastle  is  dying.  That  old  man  who  came  this 
afternoon  and  has  made  me  answerable  for  his  son's 
death." 

"  You  didn't  kill  him " 

"  That  is  not  the  question.  But  I. have  come  to  the 
conclusion  that  Oldcastle  has  some  reason  for  holding 
me  responsible." 

"  But  the  law " 

"  Never  mind  that.  Something  over  and  above  law 
troubles  me.  Now  think.  Didn't  you  tell  me  some 
years  ago  that  Drake  had  said  something  about  us? 
'Something  which  at  the  time  troubled  you?  Some- 
thing which  you  thought  he  knew  about  me?  Yes, 
yes;  and  you  told  me  that  one  day  he  saw  you  in  a 
cafe.  Silde  and  D'Erblet  were  there.  Drake  was  in 
one  of  his  mad  fits.  You  went  to  him,  and  he  asked 
you  the  name  of  the  man  who  shot  himself  at  my 
bedroom  door,  and  what — and  what?" 

"  Yes ;  but  he  shrieked  out  that  I  was  the  very  man 
who  didn't  know." 

Drake  and  Alice  came  downstairs  with  the  doctor 
and  saw  him  out.  Then  they  came  into  the  room. 
Alice  went  to  Elinor  and  told  her  that  her  grand- 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  403 

father  was  much  quieter  and  that  the  doctor  was 
hopeful. 

"  Dick,  we  are  in  great  trouble,"  said  Lexham,  "  and 
we  want  you  to  help  us  out  a  bit,  will  you?" 

"Why,  yes,  if  I  can,"  said  Drake;  "but  what  is 
it?" 

"  Well,  it  concerns  Mrs.  Kembleton  and  Alice,"  Lex- 
ham  replied. 

"Alice!    Why,  she  musn't  suffer." 

"  But  she  will,  Dick,  if  you  don't  help  to  clear  up 
this  matter." 

"  Hadn't  Miss  Oldcastle  better  leave  the  room  ?" 
Gower  said. 

"  No,  no ;  Alice,  stay  with  me !"  Elinor  cried. 

"  Dick,  do  you  remember  that  night  in  Guarini's 
place?  A  New  Year's  night  some  years  ago?  The 
night  I  first  met  you?" 

"  Yes,  I  know.     What  about  it?"  Drake  asked. 

"  You  said  something  to  Gower  about  Mrs.  Kemble- 
ton's  husband.  Don't  you  recollect?  He  was  angry." 
Drake  chuckled.  "  Dick,  it  has  all  to  do  with  the 
death  of  Alice's  father." 

"  Oh,  Dick,  dear  Dick,  tell  us !  You  know 
what  grandfather  thinks,"  Alice  cried.  "  Tell  me, 
Dick." 

"  Why,  there's  nothing  to  tell,"  Drake  muttered. 
"  It  will  keep,  Alice.  You're  not  to  suffer.  Some 
day  Mrs.  Kembleton  will  want  to  know  all  about 
that" 

"  She  wants  to  know  now,  Dick,"  Lexham  said. 

"  Ah !  Tell  you  what  I  was  offered  thousands  of 
dollars  for !  Tell  you  now !  Oh,  no,  Mrs.  Kembleton 


404  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

and  I  must  first  have  a  chat  before  I  give  up  that. 
But  you  know  me,  Lexham;  I  don't  want  money 
now." 

"  Dick,  Dick,  tell  us !"  Alice  cried,  throwing  her 
arms  about  him. 

"Ah,  child  of  Paradise,  you  mustn't  suffer.  No, 
by  God,  and  you  shan't!" 

"  But  I  shall,  Dick,  if  you  don't  tell,"  she  cried. 

"  Well,  Alice,  an  ounce  of  your  love  can  melt  any- 
thing. Even  Dick  Drake's  soul.  But  I'll  not  take 
an  ounce  of  that  from  Lexham.  He  is  a  great  big 
chap,  Alice.  It  will  all  come  right,  that  will." 

Drake  had  forgotten  the  others.  He  was  in  a 
strange  state.  Alice  held  her  arms  about  him. 

"  Now  you  are  my  dear  Dick.  Tell  me.  How  did 
my  father  die  ?" 

"  When  Valenza  sang  in  New  York,  some  months 
before  you  were  born,  your  father  met  a  man  named — 
named " 

"  Sir  Rupert  Calvin,"  Elinor  whispered.  She  was 
almost  afraid  to  break  the  spell. 

"  Yes.  He  was  Valenza's  husband,"  Drake  went 
on,  without  turning  from  Alice.  "A  baronet,  a 
drunken  gambler  who  lived  on  his  wife.  Your  father 
was  thought  to  be  a  very  rich  man,  and  Valenza's 
husband  took  him  under  his  wing.  I  was  then  the 
singer's  secretary,  and  through  my  hands  all  her  sala- 
ries passed.  But  only  mere  living  expenses  the  hus- 
band got  of  me  after  I  took  charge  of  her  affairs. 
Up  to  the  time  I  was  engaged  to  act  for  her  he  had 
squandered  all  she  had  earned.  I  saw  that  your  father 
had  fallen  in  love  with  Valenza  and  that  her  husband 


MADAME    BOHEMIA  405 

knew  it,  and  so  used  him,  and  fooled  him,  to  get  money 
from  him." 

"It's  a  lie!"  Gower  yelled. 

"  It's  no  lie !"  Drake  cried,  breaking  out  in  a  fiendish 
rage ;  "  it  is  hardly  half  the  truth.  You  were  a  mere 
boy  at  the  time.  If  I  were  to  tell  you  all  the  scoun- 
drel actually  did  you  wouldn't  believe  me.  Young 
Oldcastle  was  desperately  in  love  with  Valenza,  and  her 
husband  knew  it.  It  was  he  who  tempted  Oldcastle 
to  follow  us  to  Europe.  And  up  to  that  time  I  had 
been  the  means  of  keeping  the  young  man  away  from 
Valenza.  I  never  let  him  be  alone  with  her  for  a 
moment.  It  was  the  devil's  own  game.  And  that 
went  on  for  months.  Oldcastle  told  me  he  thought 
Valenza's  husband  would  drink  himself  to  death  or 
shoot  himself."  Drake  burst  out  into  a  peal  of  weird 
laughter  which  startled  Gower  and  Elinor.  "  But  the 
husband  won  a  waiting  game.  In  Monte  Carlo  young 
Oldcastle  was  left  without  a  cent,  and  Valenza's  hus- 
band in  a  drunken  hour  told  him  how  he  had  bled  him, 
and  that  Valenza  didn't  know  he  existed,  that  she 
hadn't  received  a  single  present,  letter,  or  anything 
which  was  supposed  to  be  a  gift.  The  husband  got 
them  all,  and  forged  letters  from  Valenza  to  Oldcastle 
acknowledging  the  presents  and  money.  The  young 
man  showed  me  dozens  of  the  forged  letters.  Oh,  it 
was  a  great  game!  And  no  one  else  knew  of  it." 

Alice,  of  course,  had  not  really  understood  half  of 
the  perfidy  of  which  Drake  related,  but  the  others  were 
staggered.  They  looked  at  one  another  in  expressions 
of  horror.  Gower  and  Lexham  seemed  to  be  incredu- 
lous. Elinor,  though  she  was  appalled  at  Drake's 


406  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

narrative,  nodded  her  head  in  a  manner  which  indi- 
cated that  she  took  no  exception  to  any  part  of  it. 

"  Dick,  what  did  young  Oldcastle  do  after  Mrs. 
Kembleton's  husband  told  him  that  she  had  not  re- 
ceived one  of  his  gifts,  that  the  letters  were  not  from 
her?"  Lexham  asked. 

"  He  went  to  Valenza's  hotel,  where  we  lived.  I 
had  given  orders  at  all  places  where  we  stayed  that 
Signora  Valenza  was  always  out  to  young  Oldcastle. 
Somehow,  he  got  upstairs,  and  I  saw  him  wandering 
about  the  passage.  A  chambermaid  told  him  which! 
was  your  door,"  he  said,  turning  to  Elinor.  "  I  ran 
back  through  my  room  and  got  you  out  of  the  way. 
For  several  minutes  he  knocked,  knocked,  knocked  on 
your  bedroom  door.  Then  the  shot  was  heard.  Your 
husband  was  lying  on  my  bed  in  a  drunken  torpor. 
You  rushed  through  the  rooms  when  you  heard  Cyril 
scream.  But  your  scream !  You  thought  it  was  your 
husband.  Well,  you  know  what  happened  that  night 
at  the  opera-house.  You  were  to  sing  '  Fidelio.'  After 
your  husband  had  finished  kicking  you,  I  came  back 
from  attending  to  the  inquiry  about  the  suicide  and 
took  you  to  the  theatre.  Well,  the  curtain  went  up 
and  you  sank  down.  Your  voice  was  gone,  and  Va- 
lenza's career  ended  a  few  hours  after  young  Old- 
castle passed  away." 

"  Oh,  Gilbert,  Gilbert,"  Alice  cried,  "  how  terrible !" 
She  looked  at  Elinor,  and  then  went  to  her  and  put  her 
arms  about  her. 

"What  then,  Dick?"   Lexham  said. 

'  The  end.  The  papers  were  full  of  rumours,  whicK 
I  didn't  think  worth  while  contradicting.  Some  said 


MADAME   BOHEMIA  407 

Oldcastle  was  Mrs.  Kembleton's  lover;  well,  I  sup- 
pose the  poor  old  man  upstairs  got  his  information 
from  the  newspapers.  Mrs.  Kembleton  knew  nothing 
about  the  affair,  well,  not  any  more  than  that  some 
man  had  shot  himself  in  the  passage  outside  her  room, 
for  she  was  taken  from  the  opera-house  to  the  hotel, 
and  from  that  day  she  lay  at  death's  door  till  long 
after  Oldcastle's  death  was  forgotten." 

"  I  can't  even  remember  ever  seeing  your  father," 
Elinor  said  to  Alice. 

"  Oh,  you  saw  him  many  times,  but  then  it  is  so 
long  ago,  and  you  saw  so  many  of  your  husband's 
friends,"  Drake  said. 

While  Drake  had  told  this,  sometimes  with  sympa- 
thy for  his  friends,  sometimes  with  the  mocking  glee 
of  the  maniac-artist  who  has  got  a  good  thing  all  to 
himself,  Gower's  soul  had  been  writhing  within  him. 
To  begin  with,  the  ebbing  away  of  the  false  storm  of 
indignation  he  had  conjured  up  had  left  him  with 
nothing  to  sustain  him;  wild  anger  and  self-pity  had 
blinded  him  hitherto;  but  now  illumination  flashed 
upon  his  soul.  Why,  he  had  no  grievance;  he  never 
had  had  any  grievance.  It  was  in  this  mood,  when  he 
was  ripe  for  conviction,  that  the  tale  of  Elinor's  woes, 
the  more  piercing  because  of  Drake's  cynical  narration, 
stormed  in  and  stung  him.  "  Brutality,  drunkenness, 
kicking,  kicking!"  My  God,  what  she  had  endured! 
and  it  was  largely  for  him.  And  what  a  cad  he  had 
been  to  her  for  it  all!  He  writhed  with  shame  when 
his  eye  fell  on  Lexham.  He  suddenly  felt  what  a 
contrast  there  was  between  his  own  whining  selfish- 
ness and  the  patient  and  heroic  manliness  of  the  honest 


408  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

fellow  he  had  sought  to  kill.  "  Kicking,  brutality, 
drunkenness!"  the  words  kept  ringing  insistently 
inside  his  brain.  Was  there  nothing  he  could  do  to 
make  himself  like  those  other  honest  folk,  nothing  he 
could  do  to  atone?  He  glanced  at  Elinor.  Her  face 
was  unutterably  sad,  worn  with  all  she  had  endured  for 
years.  He  went  to  her  with  wide-open  arms. 

"  Diva,  Diva,  my  poor  Diva !"  he  cried  in  great  dis- 
tress. "And  I  have  caused  you  so  much  pain  since 
then.  Forgive  me,  I  have  been  a  thoughtless  brute." 

She  rose,  and  a  great  joy  shone  on  her  face  as  she 
took  him  in  her  arms,  just  as  if  he  were  again  the 
little  Cyril  she  had  loved  so  well  in  the  long  ago. 

"  Cyril,  Cyril,  at  last,"  was  all  Elinor  could  utter 
distinctly. 

"  I  don't  want  your  money,  Lexham.  Thanks  all 
the  same,"  Gower  exclaimed. 

"  Oh,  that  reminds  me.  Here's  a  cheque  I  found 
on  your  desk,"  said  Drake. 

"  Cyril,  the  money  was  a  present  from  Mrs.  Laird," 
Elinor  said. 

"  Send  it  back  to  her.  Come,  Diva,  let  us  go," 
Gower  said. 

"  Yes,  you  go  on.     I  shall  follow  in  a  little  while." 

He  took  up  his  hat,  went  to  Drake,  and  said, 
"  Thanks,  I  owe  you  a  great  deal."  Then  he  went  to 
Lexham  and  grasped  his  hand,  and  said,  "  Will 
you?" 

"  That's  all  right,"  said  Lexham. 

Elinor  took  Drake  aside  and  said,  "  I  know,  Drake ; 
Alice  shan't  suffer.  Take  her  upstairs,  will  you?  I 
have  something  to  say  to  Lexham." 


MADAME    BOHEMIA1  409 

"And  that's  all  right,"  Drake  said.  "  Mind,  only 
one  good  turn  is  all  I  ask." 

''  Yes,  I  know,"  Elinor  said.  She  went  to  Alice, 
put  her  arm  round  her  waist,  and  took  her  aside. 
'  Tell  your  grandfather,  Alice,"  she  said,  "  that  I  was 
not  to  blame.  And  now  good-bye.  Dear  litttle  Alice, 
what  a  world  is  yours!  Be  always  your  own  sweet 
self,  and  remember  me,  won't  you,  Alice?  Go,  child, 
go  with  Drake." 

Drake  went  to  Alice,  took  her  arm,  and  led  her  away. 

Lexham  and  Elinor  were  alone.  He  looked  at  her 
as  she  stood  near  his  desk,  a  figure  of  resignation,  so 
changed,  but  beautiful  still.  The  rain  had  ceased  and 
the  wind  no  longer  moaned.  He  went  to  her  and 
opened  his  arms  for  her.  She  turned  and  saw  his 
action.  An  expression  of  exquisite  sadness  was  on 
her  face,  but  in  her  heart  she  felt  strong  throbbings 
of  a  new-born  joy.  She  raised  her  hand  and  shook 
her  head. 

"  No  more,  Gilbert.  Another  heart  beats  for  you," 
she  said. 

"  Elinor !"  he  cried  in  an  agony  of  love. 

"  A  younger  heart, — free,  I  think,  from  the  buffet- 
ings  of  the  world.  Mine  has  ceased  to  ache  for  you, 
Gilbert.  But  it  is  stronger  now  than  it  has  ever  been. 
It  has  known  your  love.  So  good,  so  dear,  and  once 
so  precious.  You  have  shown  me  where  my  duty  lies, 
and  there  I  seek  what  happiness  there  must  yet  be  in 
store  for  me.  Cyril  is  changed,  so  am  I.  And  I 
hope,  oh,  fervently!  that  you,  too,  will  soon  change. 
I  know  how  sweet  she  is.  A  little  while  ago  she  laid 
bare  her  tender  heart  before  me.  She  thinks  we  have 


4io  MADAME    BOHEMIA 

been  no  more  than  dear  good  friends.  She  offers  you 
a  purer  love  than  mine  has  been,  and  in  this  my  joy 
is  great,  for  I  know  you,  Gilbert,  I  know  you  will 
cherish  it  as  you  will  my  memory.  Yes,  you  grieve 
now,  dear,  but  some  day  you  will  rejoice.  And  then 
if  we  should  ever  meet  again,  you  will  love  me  as  a 
faithful  friend,  one  who  thought  as  dearly  of  your 
future  as  I  do  of  Cyril's.  He  has  redeemed  himself, 
and  now  will  need  all  my  love  and  care." 

"  Elinor,  Elinor !"  He  sank  down  helpless  and  dis- 
traught. 

"  Yes,  I  know  it  must  be  hard  for  you.  But  better 
now  than  when  your  love  must  surely  fade." 

She  left  him  and  went  to  the  door.  There  she  turned 
and  looked  sadly  back  on  him.  Then  as  she  passed 
out  Alice  met  her.  Elinor  took  her  hand  and  passed 
her  gently  into  the  room,  and  said,  "  Good-bye." 


THE   END. 


LIST  OF  POPULAR  NOVELS. 


By  John  Luther  Long. 
The  Fox-Woman. 

With  frontispiece,  on  Japanese  paper,  by  VIRGINIA  H.  DAVISSON. 
I2mo.     Cloth,  ornamental,  $1.25. 

The  popular  author  of  "Miss  Cherry-Blossom  of  Tokyo"  and 
"Madam  Butterfly"  has  taken  a  long  step  forward  in  this  beautiful, 
idyllic  new  tale  of  "  Far  Japan."  There  is  a  legend  of  that  country, 
of  the  beautiful  "Fox-Woman,"  who,  having  been  given  no  soul, 
cannot  reach  Nirvana  unless  she  steals  the  soul  of  a  man.  Mr.  Long 
adapts  this  legend  to  modern  purposes  in  his  fascinating  story. 


Miss  Cherry-Blossom  of  Tokyo. 

I2mo.      Cloth,  $1.25. 

"  The  delicate  touches  of  scenery,  society,  and  character  that  give 
constantly  changing  color  to  almost  every  page,  are  like  the  work  of  a 
painter  over  his  stretched  canvas,  which  one  is  so  fond  of  watching  as 
it  is  laid  on.  A  more  ideal  story  right  in  the  middle  of  the  hard  facts 
of  every-day  life  it  is  not  often  one's  good  fortune  to  fall  upon.  It  is 
like  a  pot  of  honey  fetched  from  the  cupboard  for  the  delectation  of 
the  mental  palate." — Boston  Courier. 


J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT   COMPANY,  PHILADELPHIA. 


LIST  OF  POPULAR  NOVELS. 


By  Rosa  N.  Carey. 
Mollie's  Prince. 

I2mo.     Cloth,  $1.25. 

Miss  Carey  has  a  well-merited  reputation  as  a  writer  of  light, 
pleasant,  wholesome  romance — of  a  kind  to  place  safely  in  the  hands 
of  young  girls.  Her  books  are  distinguished  by  high  tone,  clear  char- 
acterization, and  bright  humor,  with  never  a  dull  page  from  beginning 
to  end. 

By  Joseph  Hatton. 
When  Rogues  Fall  Out. 

A  Romance  of  Old  London.     I2mo.     Cloth,  $1.25. 

Mr.  Hatton,  so  well  and  favorably  known  to  appreciative  readers 
of  good  fiction,  gives  in  this,  his  latest  work,  what  he  considers  to  be 
the  truth  concerning  Jack  Sheppard  and  his  associates ;  and  there  is 
enough  of  romance  in  the  true  story  to  obviate  the  necessity  for  any 
violence  to  historic  facts. 

By  Mrs.  Alexander. 
The  Step-Mother. 

I2mo.     Cloth,  $1.25. 

"  Mrs.  Alexander  knows  perfectly  how  to  write  these  emotional 
romances,  and  she  always  creates  interest,  and  sustains  it  with  pleasant 
devices  of  plot  and  manner  which  commend  her  books  to-  readers  of 
good  books." —  Washington  Times. 


J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT   COMPANY,  PHILADELPHIA. 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


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